Colossus
by Esoteric24
Summary: Please do have yet another fan-made fourth book in the series. *holds out on platter* Overdone, yes, but watch me not care. Russian missions, an OC or two, some new beasties, and a mysterious warship... everything necessary for ending a war and starting a new life!
1. In Which Deryn Is Cold

**A/N: OK. Even though I threatened y'all with story withdrawal if you didn't comment on my story "Knife Wounds Do Tend to Bleed," and I got a grand total of two reviews in the week between that and this (thanks loads, Julia456 and my anonymous friend! You get virtual cookies!), I shall still post this...**

**So. This right here is the first chapter of my lowly attempt at that fourth book in the trilogy that we all so desperately yearn for. (Seriously, hasn't anyone told Scott the secret meaning of "trilogy"? I mean, look at Cassandra Clare's Mortal Instruments "trilogy." Five books and a prequel trilogy for a story that was pretty well wrapped up in the third book. Or, hey, how about Uglies?) However, since Scott has, sadly, moved on to things that are no doubt of pressing importance and awesomeness, this is MY shot at a fourth book.**

**By the way, this is NOT to be confused with the OTHER Colossus, the one by nenya62189 (an excellent FIFTH book that is, regrettably, on hiatus TT_TT). I do apologize if you got this while looking for that. If you haven't read it before, though, you should definitely check it out (and its prequel, Tikal) right after this. They are AMAZING.**

**The reason why I have an awkward title overlap is because I started writing this way back when I was severely deprived and hadn't read a BIT of fanfiction. (*shudders* I can only contemplate how incredibly dull my life must have been.) And by now, it's a bit late to change. I've been slogging away in routine contentment ever since and have written 17 of 40 meticulously planned chapters. I assure you, I am NOT giving up on this anytime soon.**

**Without further ado, let us proceed to what is quite literally a very good candidate for Most Boring First Chapter Ever. (Coincidentally, it is also the SHORTEST chapter thus far. Go figure.) Trust me, it goes uphill from here :P**

**DISCLAIMER: Whoopsies, almost forgot XD As stated above, I am NOT Scott Westerfeld, and if I were this would be 1) about a million times better and 2) illustrated by Keith Thompson instead of sporadically by yours truly.**

* * *

Deryn Sharp winced as Bovril shifted position for the millionth time, its claws puncturing her shirt. The wee beastie shivered, although its soft fur felt warm against her neck.

"Barking cold," the perspicacious loris muttered.

"Aye, that it is," she replied and shivered a squick herself. It _was_ decidedly nippy up here, dangling from a Huxley a thousand feet above the _Leviathan_'s topside. The North Atlantic in winter was hardly a summer romp, after all, and a strong tailwind nipped at her ears like a mischievous sprite despite her flight suit's thick hood. Bovril didn't seem to appreciate being used as a scarf, either.

She raised her field glasses to her goggled eyes, trying to distract herself from her tingling extremities. She wasn't off watch for a while yet, but hopefully the bosun would take pity on her soon and swap her out with Newkirk. That bum-rag hadn't been doing many of his duties lately—though, come to think of it, Deryn had been begging for every squick of work she could. Dr. Busk, the airship's head boffin, had been reluctant to let her resume normal duties, especially those that involved climbing the ratlines, due to her still-recovering sprained knee. But once the _Leviathan_ had sailed out of New York, he had reluctantly concluded that she was well enough to be worked to the bone again.

Of course, he didn't know the one thing her knee had almost revealed—her gender. If he had—Deryn smiled grimly—perhaps he would have insisted on her remaining inside the ship. He might've clapped her in the brig, even, and dragged her to London for a court-martial before the Admiralty. Luckily, Alek's clever scheming had prevented that.

But now wasn't the time to think about Alek. She'd been worse than a village lassie in regard to that boy lately, and she ought not to dwell on him now that she was finally back on active duty.

Deryn sighed, a faint sound that was lost in the wind, and scanned the sky and sea for any flash of metal that might indicate Clanker craft trying to sneak up on the massive airship. Pale, frosty blue sky stretched away to the horizons, merging with the wind-tossed sea until it all blurred together in her sight. Wispy, harried-looking clouds scudded overhead, whipping past despite the _Leviathan'_s considerable speed, and she was suddenly glad that the airship was cruising at a relatively low altitude.

_Why_ she had to perform this pointless duty, she didn't know. The Germans might've been stirred up by the whole Goliath affair, aye, but that was weeks past now. Surely they wouldn't be so daft as to go and irritate the Americans some more by trying to shoot a diplomatic airship out of the sky! But you never knew with those Clanker ninnies.

Besides, she was sure more than one skinny wee middy with a pair of field glasses was scanning the sky. The U-boat spotters on the _Leviathan_'s bridge would surely be keeping a watch for enemy craft from there, and who knew about the American airships that were accompanying the _Leviathan_ to London? There were seven of them, five sleek warships and two fat-bellied passenger craft. They—like all things American—were a queer mix of Clanker and Darwinist technologies, partly mechanical zeppelins and partly fabricated hydrogen breathers like the _Leviathan_ itself. None were as big, and none were as nippy, either, and Deryn felt a surge of pride for her ship. However, they had all sorts of odd tangles of machinery and living components jutting out of their smooth skins, and Deryn wondered how many were guns and how many were cameras and telescopes. They looked nearly the same, really, and the _Leviathan_ had a bit of both.

Of course, being up here wasn't so bad. The wind, though frigid, was a reminder that she was flying, soaring through the air like she was meant to be. Deryn felt her stomach twist as she remembered that she would be leaving the_ Leviathan_ all too soon, in a week or so when they reached London. It was a small consolation that she would be leaving not as a disgraced and ridiculed girl playing dress-up in a soldier's uniform, but as a decorated midshipman of His Majesty's Air Service going to aid a greater cause.

What that cause was, though, and where it would be taking her after London, she had only the vaguest of notions. Dr. Barlow wasn't big on specificity, and the Zoological Society of London—the organization the lady boffin worked for—was even more mysterious than she. Her vague remarks—that the organization was much more than its name indicated, that it would find many uses for Deryn, and that there would be a lot of airship travel involved—did nothing to answer Deryn's questions.

Sometimes—most times, actually—she wondered why in blazes she was leaving the_ Leviathan_, her steady home for nearly six months, her refuge through zeppelin attacks and crashes, lightning near-misses and political turmoil, for what was, after all, only a shadow of promised adventure. Then again, the discovery of her secret was almost inevitable on the _Leviathan_, and being on land again would reduce the chance of some sneaky-beak ferreting it out. She could always move on if she was discovered, and she would much rather leave the ship under her own power than be dragged off in chains.

Besides, Alek would be coming with her, and in a world turned on its head by the Great War, that was really all she could ask. Any sacrifice on her part would be worth his company a thousand times over.

Of course, it would mean keeping her latest and most shocking secret of all.

Bovril made a buzzing noise in her ear that sounded remarkably like a Clanker engine, and she scanned the skies in a panic, snapping out of her Alek-induced stupor. It was definitely…wise to listen to the beastie, as it had sharper ears and eyes than any human and was remarkably canny when it came to connections—hence the name.

But she spotted no enemy craft, just one of the American passenger zeppelins edging out of formation and into the_ Leviathan_'s airspace. She squinted and barely made out its—no, _her_, she reminded herself, nonliving airships were feminine, for some reason—name, obscured as it was by the airship's envelope: _Avian_.

Concerned, she tugged out her semaphore flags and whipped an A-V-I-A-N—A-P-P-R-O-A-C-H-I-N-G to Newkirk, who was supposed to be watching for her signals below at the _Leviathan_'s spine. Bovril craned its neck to see her arm movements and muttered each letter as she signaled it; it had taught itself semaphore from watching her practice months ago and liked to helpfully provide a translation every time someone signaled. Deryn didn't doubt that the officers—barking spiders, even some riggers—had noticed, but it was always good to let them know that you hadn't fallen asleep up here. Besides, the _Avian_ might actually be out of control or simply have her helmsman asleep at her wheel; the earlier a warning was received, the better.

Almost as if in response to her signal, although surely Newkirk couldn't have informed the bridge already, the _Leviathan_'s engines went from quarter speed to idle. Deryn frowned, watching as the _Avian_ sidled up alongside the stilled _Leviathan_, trying to align her gondola with the larger airship's. Surely they couldn't be attempting a midair coupling. The _Manual of Aeronautics_ had firmly stated that these were only to be performed in emergency situations, such as when an airship was irreparably losing hydrogen and needed supplies immediately, due to the inherent danger of a collision.

Then again, the _Leviathan_'s captain had done a few things that weren't exactly in the book before.

As Deryn watched, the gondolas were delicately aligned and a rope thrown across to the _Leviathan_. Someone must've attached it to the cargo port winch, for the _Avian_ was tugged closer and closer until she was nearly rubbing against the _Leviathan_. Deryn winced, imagining the carnage if a stray gust of wind bumped the two airships together, but just at that moment her Huxley's cable jerked as its excess slack was removed. She began to descend as the cable was winched downward.

Deryn squinted and brought her field glasses up once again as Newkirk signaled her from below her swinging boots: L-A-D-Y—B-O-F-F-I-N—W-A-N-T-S—Y-O-U.

She sighed. Whatever—or _who_ever, most likely—was barking important enough to merit such a potentially disastrous maneuver as a midair coupling involved Dr. Barlow, and the lady boffin wanted Deryn's help with whatever it was.

She wasn't surprised at all, really.

* * *

Deryn unbuckled herself from her harness and slid the final few yards down the Huxley cable, the thick rope as piping hot as a teakettle between her gloves. She felt a pang of regret; that was another thing she would miss once she left the _Leviathan_—mad stunts with rope.

Alek was waiting at the winch alone, looking decidedly chilly and pale without a flight suit. She felt something twist in the pit of her stomach when she saw him—longing, perhaps.

Though why she would still be yearning when she had what she had wanted for months, she didn't know.

Glancing around to make sure no riggers were close enough to see them, she leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on his lips.

Alek pulled back a little, looking startled, and then smiled and laughed. "Hello to you, too," he said.

Blisters, how she loved that smile.

Deryn bit her lip, forcing her brain to stay on track, and strode past him and off the spine so as not to be tempted to stare at him. Being a girl was barking _frustrating_, especially when the object of her affections was on her ship and driving her mad with his presence.

"Where's Newkirk gone?" she asked over her shoulder, heading for the ratlines. If the lady boffin wanted her, it would be below in the gondola.

Alek followed her onto the soft, unarmored membrane of the flanks of the airship. "He said something about helping with the coupling," he replied. "Do we really have to climb the ratlines?"

"Aye, that we do. It's faster than going through the gastric channel, and I reckon Dr. Barlow wants me right away. Anyway, since when have you been such a ninny about climbing?"

Deryn felt, rather than saw, his resigned shrug. "I'm not a ninny! It's just, today it's a bit…"

"Cold," she completed, taking a flying leap down the rest of the bare membrane and snagging a ratline as she half fell, half slid past it. She swung flat against the airship's warm flank, hooking her boots into the ratlines below, and winked up at Alek. "Bet you can't do that."

"I'd rather not, no." He skidded the rest of the way down on his boot heels, barely managing to grab a ratline. That was another good thing about being more than friends now; he wasn't ashamed to turn down some of her wee competitions. "I have a message lizard for you," he continued as she reached out a hand to steady him. He fished in his jacket for a moment and brought out one of the wee beasties, placing it on his shoulder.

Being from reptilian stock, the lizard was sluggish in the cold, and Alek had to prod it a few times for it to blink, focus on Deryn, and give its message.

"Mr. Sharp," it said in the posh tones of the lady boffin. "I would like you and Alek to come to my cabin at your earliest convenience. I have a guest I'd like you to meet. And," the lizard paused, and Deryn half expected it to raise a tiny eyebrow, as Dr. Barlow often did, "I would appreciate it if you looked smart while doing so."

The lizard paused, waiting for a reply, and when none was offered, it scampered off Alek's shoulder and down the membrane.

"That's _it_?" Deryn said incredulously. "She ordered a midair coupling and pulled me off watch just so we could go and greet some barking American boffin?"

"It appears so, yes. Though Newkirk assured me he would take over for you as soon as he got back." Alek pointed down the flank. "It also seems as if this boffin, whoever he is, might be staying for a while."

The _Avian_ had uncoupled from the _Leviathan_ and was heading back into formation. It did indeed appear that Dr. Barlow's guest would be spending the rest of the journey aboard the _Leviathan_.

Deryn sighed, still amazed that the lady boffin had the audacity to risk a crash just to transfer one passenger. She practically commanded the entire barking ship, never mind Captain Hobbes's orders!

She felt a squick of smugness, though, as she realized she too would soon have that kind of pull. As small a compensation for leaving her home as it was, it was _something_, at least.

Deryn met Alek's dark green gaze for a squick. "Well, then, I reckon we'd better get climbing. When Dr. Barlow says 'at your earliest convenience,' she means barking _now_."

* * *

**If only you knew what is in store for you, Deryn... If only you knew... *does best evil cackle***

**You get a virtual hug if you guess who the "boffin" is! (Especially since you'd have to be some kind of mind-reader; I was too lazy to actually base them more than very, very loosely off of someone historical.) **

**Anyway, Chapter 2 should be up in a week, depending upon if y'all are nice, responsible reviewers or not ;) Just kidding, it should be up then anyway, seeing as I've had it written for over five months. But seriously, be kind, take a few minutes, and REVIEW!**


	2. In Which Alek and Volger Are Surprised

**A/N: Good whatever-time-of-day-it-is-for-you, dear readers. I hope that you have been hanging on the edge of your seat, eagerly awaiting this next chapter, unable to sleep at night because you're too excited...! Just kidding, hopefully not. I wouldn't want to screw with anyone's sleep schedules ;) **

**To respond to the several guest reviews I received, for which I would like to heartily thank my reviewers (if you review, I hold up my end by responding. And if you do so anonymously, then the only way I can do that is here...):**

**Guest: I'm honored to be your first experience of this fandom! ;) And aww, thanks for saying that. I DO try and sound like him, but sometimes I feel like I myself am coming through in the writing... I'm glad you're eager to read more, and I hope the rest of the chapters I have so far are up to your standards! Also, I'm sorry to hear you thought that. It's definitely something I'll consider, but I did go very heavy on the Derynese (as I call it XD) for the first chapter since, you know, she was narrating it. This one has absolutely none at all, so...**

**Justin: *bows* I'm glad you thought so :) Hopefully this update'll make you happy!**

**In related news, let's proceed to Chapter 2, which is nearly twice as long as Chapter 1 ;D Who wants some besotted!Alek? (SO fun to write XD) Some Varlow subtext? And of course, y'all know what time it is... OC TIME! :D**

**DISCLAIMER: Who would pay MONEY to read this? Oh, and I'm not Scott, either.**

* * *

Alek ran a hand over his wind-tousled hair, smoothing it down in preparation for meeting the mysterious visitor, then reached out a hand and rapped on Dr. Barlow's door.

For a split second, Deryn flashed him a confident smile, her bright blue eyes saying, _Keep your chin up_. He wished she wouldn't do that; it was distracting, and he could do without distractions while wrestling with the latest situation Dr. Barlow had cooked up.

He studied her face out of the corner of his eye as she pushed open the door almost before Dr. Barlow's genteel "Come in." He certainly hadn't fallen in love with her because of her looks—it was more of a personality thing, really—but he admitted to himself that she _was_ quite beautiful, once one saw her delicate features for what they were.  
Not that Alek would ever tell her that aloud, of course. For one thing, she'd probably punch him—she wasn't exactly the girliest of people, and she might take it as an insult of some sort.

Or then again, maybe she would kiss him. He wasn't quite sure how to predict what she would do next at any given moment, especially now that he'd admitted he loved her.

Alek remembered his father, composed and regal in his office chair. "Don't fall in love with a pretty face," Archduke Franz Ferdinand had counseled the ten-year-old Alek wearily. "It will only bring you sorrow, as it brought me." The child-Alek had nodded along, hanging on to every word and silently resolving not to ever fall in love at all. He had believed everything his father had uttered; after all, his father's worry was grooved into every line of his face. He had brought shame to himself and his wife and ruined his young son's life by marrying the woman he loved, one not royal enough for the Hapsburg line. Of course, he had worked for Alek and given him a chance at royalty anyway.

One that Alek had thrown into the East River, in fact.

The door swung open to reveal Dr. Barlow perched complacently on her desk chair, as always holding Tazza's leash, and by her side… Alek felt his eyes widen.

By her side stood a girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years of age. She was as tall as Alek himself, and stood stiffly with her chin lifted high, her tense shoulders speaking of no little trepidation coursing through her slender frame. Goggles were pushed up her pale forehead, displacing jet-black hair as short as Deryn's. She wore a leather walker-piloting jacket unbuttoned over a collared boys' shirt with no tie, piloting gloves, plain trousers, and rubber-soled airman's boots. A massive leather trunk, no doubt filled with her clothes, lay at her feet.

All in all, she was _not_ what Alek had been expecting.

Bovril was the first to break the shocked silence, leaning forward from its perch on Deryn's shoulder to study the girl. "Miss," it said thoughtfully.

Dr. Barlow smiled slightly, her eyes registering amusement at Deryn's and Alek's surprise. "Indeed," she said smoothly. "Miss Black, meet Midshipman Dylan Sharp and His Serene Highness Prince Aleksandar of Hohenberg. Mr. Sharp, Alek, meet Miss Artemis Black."

The girl smiled easily, looking slightly relieved that no one was screaming or pointing at her clothing. "Call me Arty," she said in an American accent, extending a hand.

Alek hesitated, unsure whether to kiss her hand as he would that of a noble lady or shake it. Deryn solved the problem for him by bowing from the waist, then seizing Arty's hand and shaking it enthusiastically. She took Arty's measure briefly, then smiled and said, "You can call me Dylan. And Alek doesn't need anybody swelling his head any more by calling him titles."

Only Alek felt what she hadn't said—_titles that aren't his anymore_. He, too, bowed and shook Arty's hand. It was delicate, yet strong and callused, in his grip. _Like Deryn's_. He met Arty's dark blue eyes for an instant, and saw her strong character shining out of them like an unshuttered glowworm lamp held aloft. He sighed inwardly. _Just what I need—another willful girl in my life._

An awkward silence stretched out until Arty said, "I see you have a… what-do-you-call-it, too."

"Perspicacious loris," piped up Bovril, seemingly affronted by this injustice to its species name.

Deryn smiled again. "Aye, that's Bovril, and as you can see, it can speak for itself."

"_Bovril_? As in the drink? But aren't fabs supposed to be nameless? Dr._ Barlow's_ loris doesn't have a name!" She said this very quickly, all in one breath, and Alek wondered if she was this eager all the time or simply reacting to a release of nervous tension.

"Long story," supplied Dr. Barlow's loris.

Dr. Barlow smiled. "As you can see, Miss Black, they are aptly named." Arty nodded, and her mouth twitched. "Anyway," Dr. Barlow turned to Alek and Deryn, "Miss Black has come from the _Avian_ to spend her journey to London on the _Leviathan_. In fact, she will be accompanying us much farther than that; she is coming all the way to Saint Petersburg with us."

"_Saint Petersburg_? We're going to the Russian capital?" asked Alek, although it certainly made sufficient sense. After France, Russia was Britain's biggest ally, and her fighting bears were just as important to the Darwinist armies as British krakens and airbeasts and French land-fighting fabrications. Dr. Barlow must want to exchange ideas with Russian boffins—or perhaps something more. Deryn had hinted at the queer duties Dr. Barlow—and now they—would be performing. She had said that the Zoological Society of London's work was much more than just scientific exchanges of ideas.

Dr. Barlow, who had been informed of Alek's intentions to accompany her wherever her duties took her, merely nodded. "Yes, after London. I'm afraid that, although you and I speak French, Alek, it's rather critical—not to mention diplomatic—to have someone in our party who speaks Russian. Miss Black is quite fluent."

Arty smiled. "Моя мать была дочерью американского посла," she said.

"Um, excuse me, but _what_?" Deryn asked, her face expressing puzzlement as great as Alek's. He had recognized the sentence as Russian, of course, but he hadn't understood a word of it, besides one that sounded as if it meant "America."

"I said, 'My mother was the daughter of the American ambassador,'" translated Arty.

Dr. Barlow smiled enigmatically. "And her father is Dr. Black, the eminent American biologist and fabricator. He has decided, along with some of his colleagues, to come to London, and has entrusted his daughter to me. It is traditional, in my field, for an aspiring young scientist to apprentice to someone with experience, and he has decided that she would do best with me. Now, Mr. Sharp, Tazza needs a walk, and I'm sure Miss Black would appreciate a tour of this marvelous airship. Alek, if you would stay behind, I'd like a word with you."

Alek nodded wordlessly, amazed by the rapid speed that events seemed to be moving. First an American girl in trousers—although he _had_ heard tell that a few American women were wearing them nowadays, he certainly wasn't expecting to see such a lady calling on Dr. Barlow, who was proper if anyone ever was—and now this. Of course, he should be used to fast-paced living by now—revolutions and international politics didn't exactly move at a snail's pace—but it still took him by surprise.

He had a sneaking suspicion that whatever Dr. Barlow wanted to talk to him about, it had to do with his renouncement of his titles. He hadn't told her yet, but Deryn was correct in calling her sneaky; the woman had ways of finding things out that he couldn't even guess at.

Deryn nodded, shooting a quick glance at Alek. He nodded in return, and she took Tazza's leash from the lady boffin's upheld, gloved palm with one hand and seized one end of Arty's enormous trunk with the other. "Aye, ma'am," she said, rolling her eyes when Dr. Barlow couldn't see. Alek swallowed a smile. "Where's your cabin, miss?" she asked Arty, digging her boots into the carpet and tugging the trunk, which looked like it weighed more than she did, along.

Arty kicked open the door nonchalantly and strode out into the hallway. "Here," Alek heard her say as the door closed with a sound altogether too gentle for a normal door its size—it was made of fabricated wood, strong as steel and very light. "I'll take the thylacine. My cabin's just down here." Bovril jumped down from Deryn's shoulder as she followed suit, waddling over to Alek and curling around his boots.

Dr. Barlow turned the full force of her gaze on Alek, and he had an irrational urge to shrink back like a mouse under a cat's fierce eye. At the center of this woman's attention was _not_ where he wanted to be.

But she merely smiled, snapping her fingers for the message lizard that was peeking its head out of the pipe that coiled along the wall. It scurried onto her desk, and she cleared her throat. "Count Volger, I would appreciate it if you could join me and the young prince in my stateroom now for a little talk. End message."

The lizard scampered off down the pipe, fixated on its quest to carry the message to Volger. Alek smiled inwardly as he pictured how the wildcount would jump when the lizard spoke to him. Despite his months among Darwinist fabrications on the _Leviathan_, the man was still frightened to death by them.

Then he felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. If Count Volger was coming, then this _must_ be about his abdication. Alek hadn't told him in the three weeks since his decision, dreading his fire-breathing reaction to the news, and here, with Dr. Barlow watching his every move, was probably the worst possible place to break it to him.

Dr. Barlow drummed her fingers on the surface of her desk, pinning Alek with her gaze like an insect to a cork backing. "Sit down, please," she said, indicating the couch behind him.

He all but fell backwards, stumbling the few steps to the couch, and sat. Bovril, sensing his need for comfort, crawled up into his lap. Its warm weight was condoling as he stroked it with a finger.

Dr. Barlow crossed her ankles, settling her skirt primly, and Alek realized bitterly that this configuration meant she was a good twenty-five centimeters higher than him. _She's like_ _that_, he thought. _Always giving herself little advantages in every way she can_. And it worked, too. There wasn't a man—or girl, he amended, thinking of Deryn—on this ship that she hadn't bent to her will, as easily as a strongman he had seen in the markets of Istanbul had bent a thick steel bar

An uncomfortable silence stretched out, the lorises staring at each other and Dr. Barlow continuing to tap her fingers. Alek was almost glad when Count Volger rapped at the door and entered without waiting for acknowledgement.

"Dr. Barlow," he said, bowing slightly as if to make up for the impoliteness of his entry. "You wished to see me?"

Dr. Barlow spoke in her excellent German, a diplomatic gesture to the two Austrians. "Yes, please have a seat."

Count Volger sank down beside Alek on the couch, keeping his back very stiff and straight and giving Bovril a glance out of the corner of his eye.

Alek was the first to speak, also in German. "Dr. Barlow, if you don't mind me asking, why have you called us here? It is most… irregular." His heart pounded faster, and his stomach churned. He hadn't dreaded telling something this much since… well, the _first_ time Dr. Barlow had forced a secret out of him.

Dr. Barlow smiled slightly. "As much as I'm sure you'd rather be showing our guest around with Mr. Sharp, I'm afraid this concerns you. And you, too, Count."

"Well, what is it?" Volger all but barked, his patience for the lady boffin's habit of mincing around the subject wearing thin.

This time, she got right to the point. "I believe _Prince_ Alek has something he wants to tell you."

Count Volger couldn't have missed the emphasis, although he didn't react. "What is it, Your Serene Highness?

Alek winced, not letting it show on his face. There was no choice now but to tell Volger; Dr. Barlow obviously knew. "I have decided to renounce my titles," he said, wishing that there was a way to put it more delicately.

Count Volger's thick brows drew together, looming dangerously over his aquiline nose, but he didn't explode, hampered by Dr. Barlow's presence. "_All_ of them? And what about your letter from the pope?" A few months ago, he wouldn't have dared to mention it in Dr. Barlow's presence, but Alek had announced his final secret to Eddie Malone, a nosy reporter for the _New York World_, in exchange for him not publishing Deryn's secret.

Volger hadn't exactly been pleased about that, either.

Aware of four pairs of eyes on him, Alek swallowed and replied, "I might've, um, thrown it over the side. Of the airship. Into the East River. So, yes, I'm renouncing my claim to the throne as well."

Volger snapped. "_Over the side_? You threw the claim your father and I worked so hard to obtain _over the side_?" His eyes narrowed, and, before Alek had a chance to reply, he spoke again. "This has to do with _that girl_, doesn't it?"

Alek felt a blush creeping up his cheeks, but he didn't reply, suddenly angry that Volger would be so careless with Deryn's secret. For all Volger knew, Dr. Barlow could've been completely in the dark about Deryn, and he had just blurted out a monumental hint as to her gender! Luckily, of course, Deryn had told Dr. Barlow, but Volger obviously didn't care at all about her welfare, as he had proven before when he attempted blackmail on her using that particular secret.

Honestly, Alek was growing tired of it.

His suspicions probably confirmed, Volger was just about to speak again when Bovril piped up.

"No," it said clearly, looking straight at Volger.

It was the first time, to Alek's knowledge, that the perspicacious loris had uttered a lie. At times it was difficult to interpret the creature's cryptic mutterings, but this was something else entirely. Bovril's devotion to its masters was showing, he supposed.

Count Volger glared at it. "It's lying," he said to no one in particular.

"I beg your pardon, Count, but it _can't_," Dr. Barlow said coolly. "I fabricated it, so I should know. It's physically impossible for it to tell a lie, even one perpetrated by someone else. That's one of the qualities that makes it so…" she shrugged and switched to English, "perspicacious."

Her loris said smugly, "Honesty is the best policy," and burst into giggles. Bovril joined it in hilarity an instant later.

Either Bovril had indeed been damaged in the egg by the _Leviathan_'s crash and its subsequent irregular care and was defective, as Dr. Barlow had previously claimed, or she was lying for her own purposes. Alek thought the latter more likely, but why in blazes would Dr. Barlow care about his and Deryn's relationship? It couldn't affect her, after all.

Count Volger glared her down for a second, then shrugged. "If you say so. Then, Aleksandar, what were you _thinking_? Your unutterably foolish—" He cut himself off.

Alek stared down at his boots, furiously trying to come up with an answer.

"War," Bovril supplied softly.

"Yes!" he cried, seizing upon this with the gratitude and desperation of a drowning man grasping at a lifeline. "The war! I… tired of being a target. The Germans killed my parents. I couldn't… I couldn't let innocent people be harmed if the same happened to me." He paused, surprised to find tears welling up in his eyes, the familiar emptiness gnawing at his insides. After nearly six months, perhaps he should've grown accustomed to the fact that his parents were dead, murdered by German poison in the night to start this mess of a war.

But having it sprung on him like this had loosened his iron control, and he struggled to rein in his wayward emotions. Deryn's smile, her laughter and colorful language and confidence, all filled this emptiness. She, too, had lost a parent. She, too, knew how it felt.

Alek was relieved when Volger spoke in a softer voice, no doubt saddened by the mention of his close friend. "Of course. But, Your—but, Alek, I thought you wanted to _end_ this war. You can't do that now. You've thrown away all your influence, and with it any chance of making a difference."

Alek opened his mouth to speak, but Dr. Barlow beat him to it. "I wouldn't say that, Count. Alek will be accompanying me on a diplomatic mission to Russia and from there to wherever my work takes me."

The man's eyes narrowed. "_When_, exactly, were you planning on telling me this, Aleksandar?"

Alek swallowed. "Um… soon?" It came out sounding entirely too much like a question.

Count Volger stood abruptly. "May we be excused, Doctor?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Certainly," she replied, gesturing elegantly towards the door. "We've discussed everything I wanted to cover."

Count Volger bowed curtly, striding to the door and yanking it open for Alek. He steeled himself, gathering Bovril in his arms, and heading into the corridor. The last thing he saw as Volger slammed the door shut was the closest thing to a smirk he had ever seen on Dr. Barlow's features flit across her face.

Volger advanced on him, and he took a few instinctive steps backward. The man looked positively murderous

"_So_," spat Volger. "You wait to let me find out about all of this until _she_ forces it out of you in my presence."

"Honestly, I don't know how—" Alek started, desperately trying to placate him. Volger's hand was resting on the pommel of his fencing saber, always a bad sign.

"—you could be this stupid," Volger finished for him. "I thought you were smarter than this, _Your Serene Highness_."

Alek winced. That stung. Even if he didn't want to admit it, Volger's opinion mattered to him. Previously, he had agonized over decisions he knew Volger wouldn't approve of, simply because his viewpoint had always made sense to the cold, ruthless, cynical side of Alek—and because his father had known and respected this man. But it was time for that to end.

He lifted his chin and looked Volger straight in the eye. His days of cowering were over. He wasn't a child anymore—in fact, he realized that his sixteenth birthday had come and gone while he was on the _Leviathan_—and it was time he stopped acting like one. "What I was _going_ to say was that I don't know how Dr. Barlow found out. But obviously that doesn't matter to you. I don't have to justify myself." Alek turned away and crossed his arms, trying to exude disdain.

"Yes, you do, _boy_," Volger snarled. "You're no longer a spoiled brat of a prince; you're a disrespectful peasant whelp, and that's worse. God's wounds, you threw away _everything_ your father ever worked for! First the castle, to go gallivanting off on an adventure with the Darwinists, your _enemies_, and now your claim to the throne. If it's that girl you want, I hope you're _happy_."

"This has nothing to do with Deryn! I just wanted—Russia is—"

Volger cut him off. "_Russia_! Don't get me started on that! Now you're going straight into the heart of Darwinist territory. _Flying over_ Russia is one thing. This is something else entirely! Sometimes I wonder what side you're on anymore!"

Alek took a slow breath, wondering what to say. That last remark had cut deep. He had been born and raised a Clanker, taught the importance of loyalty to his country and allies, told that fabrications were soulless abominations, against God's will. Then again, from the moment he had seen the _Leviathan_, he had been drawn in by the massive beast's elegance and complexity, a tangled, chaotic web of creatures working together to form a miracle. He remembered telling Deryn about his love for the airship before he escaped from it to Istanbul and, bizarrely, had to stifle a laugh as he remembered her halting replies. Poor girl; he had been so unclear out of embarrassment that she had probably thought he had found her out and was declaring his love for _her_.

He also remembered what the Germans, his erstwhile "allies," had done to him and his. It was they who had killed his parents as a calculated political move. They had chased him for weeks back and forth through Austria and fired at him more than once. They had nearly fried the _Leviathan_ with lightning twice in Istanbul; his friend Zaven, the revolutionary, had died toppling their Tesla cannon there. And they had attempted to wreck the mad scientist Tesla's doomsday device, Goliath, convinced he was going to eradicate Berlin. They had driven Tesla over the edge, causing Alek to kill him with his own electrikal walking stick, and yet the _Leviathan_ had still almost burst into flames. Alek remembered the tears that had streamed down his face as he had prayed to anything that might be listening for Deryn's life.

But the Germans had also one single, solitary, beneficial thing—without them, he would have never met Deryn.

Of course, perhaps providence would have found a way anyway.

"I _do_ know what side I'm on," he told Volger quietly. "Not the one of the people who killed my parents, that's for sure."

Volger blinked, obviously surprised by this stance. "But—Darwinist abominations—"

"They're not abominations. They're beautiful… in their own disgusting way," Alek parried.

Volger sighed, seeing that he wouldn't back down. "Well, then, I suppose you want me to accompany you to Russia?"

"Of course, Count. After all, I'm just a foolish boy. I'd be lost without you."

Count Volger frowned, opened his mouth, and closed it again, deciding not to respond to Alek's sarcasm. "Understand, I'm not forgiving you. What you did is inexcusable. But…" He looked down, showing weakness for the first time, and cleared his throat. "Your father would want me to look out for you. After all, a godfather has to look after his godson, doesn't he?" Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode out of sight down the corridor, heading no doubt for his room.

Alek felt his mouth drop open. _Godfather?_ His irascible fencing master, the one who had taken so much pleasure in tormenting him when he was younger, the one who had treated him with such contempt in the past, both because of his unorthodox birth and his actions in general, was his _godfather_? Unbelievable. And even more unbelievable was the fact that his father had never mentioned this to him.

"Godson," said Bovril thoughtfully. It had remained silent all through the exchange, no doubt slightly shocked by the vehemence of Volger's words. "Barking mad."

* * *

**That's right, Alek, stand up for yourself and your snap decisions! God (in this case, Scott Westerfeld) knows you haven't before :P**

**A note on dear, dear Arty: Yes, she's important. And yes, I stole her name from Deryn's dad. My character-naming skills are PATHETIC, I am telling you. I literally spent over a week debating what her name should be before finally deciding to steal bits of it from other people's characters :P Oh, and I mentioned a historical basis: Her grandfather was Baron Karl von Struve (typically rendered, in America, as "de Struve"), Russian minister to the United States from 1882 to 1892. None of von Struve's daughters married an American, but they are roughly the right age to have a daughter Arty's age, and they all married into very rich or noble families. A prominent fabricator such as Dr. Black (yeah, I made him up), if a member of a rich family, probably would qualify as a suitable husband. **

**Also, GOOGLE TRANSLATE RUSSIAN ALERT. Predictably, I have been unable to find anyone who speaks/reads Russian to check it for me, and I am NOT qualified to be writing in Russian. (I did watch a movie in Russian once...) So feel free to ignore the actual Cyrillic lettering and take Arty's word for what's being said, cuz that's what I MEANT :3**

** Next week, y'all get a lovely "new" chapter (that's only been edited [when I was bored and too lazy to actually write anything new] about a hundred times), but meantime, humor me, make my day 678% better, and REVIEW!**


	3. In Which Some Girly Crying Occurs

**Lo! A new chapter beckons! (I've been listening to too many carols. Seriously, _why _do all the radio stations start playing Christmas music halfway through November? And why is the only Hanukkah song they ever play that one by Adam Sandler?)**

**This chapter is shorter than the last one. And I spent a good hour fretting over 1) the _Leviathan_'s internal layout and 2) the possibility of OOC-ness. Then I decided that not everyone pays obsessive attention scenery details like I do and that, heck, everyone is entitled to a moment of weakness now and again :3 But ****still, if anything bothers you, please do tell me...**

**Yon weekly guest review reply:**

**Guest: Thanks! I hope this is satisfactory!**

**DISCLAIMER: Does anyone _actually _think I'm Scott Westerfeld? Because, frankly, that would be creepy.**

* * *

Deryn handed Arty Tazza's leash gratefully, hefting her tremendous

trunk with both hands. Her arms, weakened from a month of enforced rest from ratline-climbing, shook, but she gritted her teeth and locked her elbows. She had never been one to let her body's limitations dictate what she could and couldn't do, that was for sure.  
"What do you have in here, rocks?" she grunted.

"As a matter of fact, yes, there are some geological samples in there," Arty replied, her eyes absorbing every detail of the corridor, expertly keeping Tazza from taking off like a rocket. "Jeez, this thylacine is active. What did Dr. Barlow call it, again? Tazza?"

"Barking brilliant. Rocks." Deryn shook a droplet of sweat from her brow, cursing the apprentice boffin mentally. "Aye, that's his name. He's Dr. Barlow's traveling companion, although of course she never walks him herself," she blethered, aware that this girl's rapid-fire questions were throwing her off stride. Oddly, Arty reminded her of her aunties, poking and prodding for every gossipy detail they could extract from their victim.

"What does that mean? 'Barking'?"

Deryn blinked in surprise. "It's a curse, actually. Pardon my language, miss."

"Oh, I don't mind. It's… colorful. I haven't met many British people before, and not any airmen. And don't call me 'miss.' It sounds so… well, feminine." Arty gave an uncomfortable laugh, brushing a wayward lock of short black hair off her forehead.

"I'm Scottish, actually," Deryn replied shortly—she didn't have breath for a longer reply. "Grew up in Glasgow."

"I can tell. Well, you're still British, aren't you? I mean, Scotland hasn't been its own country since King James I," Arty chattered, waving her education under Deryn's nose like a semaphore flag, as Alek did sometimes. As a girl who had grown up receiving only patchwork education—in household tasks and aeronautics, mostly—she resented those who forgot that education was a privilege. She herself could, of course, read and write well, do enough maths to understand physics reasonably well, and speak German—she was a dab hand at picking up languages, apparently—having gone to school until her father's death, but she wasn't about to go to university any time soon.

"I suppose so. Can we not talk? This trunk is heavy," Deryn panted curtly. She instantly regretted it as Arty's expressive face went blank, only her eyes betraying her hurt.

"Fine," she said after a beat of wounded silence. "My cabin's just around this corner and down the hall a little."

"Aye," Deryn said, pausing a squick, then hoisting the trunk fully off the ground with a tremendous effort. She saw Arty watching her out of the corner of her eye, clearly impressed, and prayed fervently that this girl wouldn't turn out like Lilit, who had fallen in love with "Dylan," figured out Deryn's secret, and kissed her anyway.

It would be better for all concerned if Arty didn't turn out as clever as Lilit, although Deryn doubted that she wouldn't, given her apprenticeship to the lady boffin and all.

Deryn rounded the corner and almost laughed; Arty's cabin was actually the one next to Alek's. How barking convenient.

Now that she thought about it, Arty would make it even harder for her to be alone with Alek. No doubt she would be tagging along everywhere with them for the next week and for months to come. Blisters.

Nudging the door open with her boot, she tossed the trunk into the room unceremoniously, wincing at the heavy thud. Certain that the airship was now leaning to port ever so slightly, she turned to Arty, unobtrusively wiping her brow. "I'm assuming you want the grand tour," she said wearily, taking back Tazza's leash and wincing as her arms were almost pulled out of their sockets.

"Yes, show me everything," Arty replied. "There aren't any living airships this big in the States! These are the passenger cabins, right?"

"Aye. Forward of here—" she strode toward the bow, Tazza tugging her along and Arty tagging behind like a wee faithful puppy—"are the bridge, the navigation room, the lizard room, officers' and middies' cabins, and belowdecks. I don't think you'd be interested in down there; it's mostly storerooms, and anyway, strictly speaking, civilians aren't supposed to go down." Deryn cleared her throat, trying to keep her voice low and soft like a boy's—she kept forgetting in her efforts to get a word in edgewise between Arty's chatter. "I can't show you the bridge, either, unless the officers invite us up. Not much else up here. You're lucky to have a cabin so close to the bow."

* * *

The rest of the gondola tour went smoothly enough, with Arty absorbing everything through wide eyes. She had seen plenty of the components before—message lizards and strafing hawks and whatnot—being an American boffin-in-training, but she seemed more fascinated with the mechanical aspects of it, and asked endless questions about support and load and other things Deryn couldn't explain. She was starting to feel like a real _Dummkopf_ by the time she decided to take Arty up to the gastric channel.

They trudged to the top deck of the gondola, where the riggers' bunks were—although they weren't really bunks, just hammocks, and the hydrogen sniffers were kept here too. It was mostly empty, aside from a few men on the night watch catching up on sleep. They barely stirred as Deryn and Arty walked through, exhausted by the hard work of climbing and patching.

Arty laughed as a hydrogen sniffer snuffled her hand with its curious double nose. Deryn remembered the first time Alek had seen a sniffer and had to stifle a laugh of her own. His reaction—trying to shoot it with a pistol and in the process almost torching the entire airship—was a far cry from Arty's calm wonderment. "It's sweet," she said, kneeling and stroking its rough fur. "Spider and dog, correct? What does it do—sniff out weapons?"

"Well, that too, although the beasties' main job is to find leaks in the membrane. You don't want to pet it," she added, remembering the obsession of girls back home with avoiding even a squick of dirt. "They're not all that clean."

Arty shrugged and inadvertently gained a little respect in Deryn's eyes. "So? My dog back home is never washed either." She stood, giving the beastie's fur one last rumple and gaining a curious look from its owner. "Onward and upward, is it?" she asked, starting to stride towards the hatch.

Deryn caught her by the arm, then let go just as quickly, feeling a squick uncomfortable. Her ma had always drilled her that a lady should be treated respectfully at all times, and she didn't doubt that this girl would regard any "liberties" with disdain, if not fear. "Not so fast," she snapped, and then smiled apologetically. "Sorry," she said, softening her voice. Going back from punching-up boy mode to politeness was taking some effort. "It's cold up on the spine. You're going to want a flight suit." She eyed Arty's slender frame. "I don't think a rigger's suit would fit you, and anyway, you wouldn't want to wear one—"

Arty smirked. "Not washed often, are they?"

"No. Here," she said, first tugging off her gloves and then stripping off the thick, fur-lined flight suit and her leather safety harness. "You look to be about my size."

"I suppose so. You're really skinny, aren't you," she said, eyeing Deryn a bit oddly. "Aren't you supposed to be muscular from, you know, hauling trunks around?"

Deryn smiled and shrugged, unobtrusively crossing her arms over her waist and biting back a curse. Despite her shape-altering tailoring, she was a bit too skinny to be an entirely convincing boy, although it wasn't much of a problem, since she was plenty tall. "If I'm not bulky now, I'll never be, I reckon. Now—" she held out her flight suit—"get dressed, will you?"

Arty dressed with remarkable speed for a girl, tugging the thick gloves on over her own and zipping up the coverall. Deryn snatched a rigger's suit at random—hygiene could get stuffed—and armored herself against the cold, too. When she was done, she led the way up the hatch that exited the gondola. She shivered as she paused in the frigid gap between gondola and airbeast to give Arty a gloved hand up—that she ignored—and then climbed up into the airbeast's gut, shrugging to herself. If Arty wanted to fall off the barking ladder, that was her problem, although Deryn would have done the same thing.

She stood on the aluminum walkway down the center of the gastric channel and dug her heels in as Tazza yanked on his leash, zigzagging this way and that and yelping in a frenzy to follow all of the myriad smells wafting through the faintly clart-smelling air.

Deryn smiled as Arty gained her feet beside her, her mouth falling open as she took in the massive ribs curving into darkness above, clothed in pink flesh, with bladders of hydrogen swelling, taut and full, between them. The beastie's digestive juices gurgled below, also invisible in the gloom. Deryn took out her command whistle and blew once; glowworms lit in snaking paths under the skin, filling the cavernous space with a slightly eerie green glow. She shivered, though the space was warm with the airbeast's body heat, feeling as insignificant as a dust mote, as she always did in this cavernous, _living_ space.

Arty suddenly regained the power of speech. "It's… huge!" she said in a hushed voice, also awed by the scale of this scientific feat.

Deryn laughed. "Aye, well, the airship's _all_ barking huge. In case you're wondering what that smell is, this is a digestive tract." She sniffed the air, checking for the telltale bitter-almond smell of hydrogen, and smiled, satisfied. "It's where the beastie makes its hydrogen, and I can't smell any. That's good—means there're no internal leaks." She began to head down the walkway, walking slowly as Arty followed, craning her neck to see every crevice.

"Well, I know how that works—extracts it as a pure element from its food, doesn't it? The whole idea is ingenious, really. But what does hydrogen _smell_ like?"

"Like almonds, sort of, but bitterer. That's what the sniffers smell when they detect a leak. Drives them mad. You have to look out for that smell—it means even the air is flammable." Deryn paused and cleared her throat, suddenly choking up. The time Newkirk's Huxley had gone up in flames—they had awarded her a medal for saving him—all the times the _Leviathan_ had nearly been fried by lightning—they were too close to how her da had died.

That was, in flames as his hot-air balloon had burned, after sacrificing himself to save Deryn.

Arty was watching her closely now as they walked, and Deryn sniffed back her tears. Two and a half years now since Da's death, and here she was crying like it was yesterday. She cursed herself as a _Dummkopf_ silently and spoke in a trembling voice. "That's why… that's why there are no regular guns, and lightning…" She cut herself off, aware her voice was rising like a girl's. _Pull yourself together!_

"I know that. It's the same on zeppelins. But that's not it, is it?" Arty spoke in a soft voice, stopping and turning to face Deryn, her hand twitching as if she would like to take hers. "I read all about the _Leviathan_'s exploits with Tesla cannons—and Goliath—in the papers. Exciting, no? Like an adventure novel. One that _proper young ladies_—" here her voice rose in barely controlled anger and frustration—"shouldn't read. But you, Dylan…" she trailed off and cocked her head, "you lost somebody in an airship fire, didn't you? Not a crewmember—that would've been in the papers—but… family." It wasn't a question, but her eyes demanded an answer as she held Deryn's gaze.

Deryn swallowed and nodded, glad her tears were now under control. The only person on this airship who had seen her cry was Alek, and that was when he had found her out. She wasn't about to appear weak to this girl she had known barely a few hours. "My…my da. Two years ago, in a hot-air balloon fire." She stopped and nearly cursed out loud. She hadn't meant for that to slip out—normally she told everyone that Artemis Sharp, one dead airman, was her uncle, not her father, lest they connect Midshipman Dylan Sharp with Miss Deryn Sharp, as Alek had eventually done, with the help of Bovril and a newspaper article. "You and him share a name, actually," she blurted, just now realizing it, and got a grip on herself. No more tidbits that a clever-boots like Arty could use. She _had_ said she read the papers.

Arty nodded silently, seemingly struggling with something of her own. "I'm sorry. I know how it feels. I… lost my mother a year ago, too. It was… dreadful." She started walking again, and Deryn followed, their bootsteps and the clicking of Tazza's claws on metal ringing loud in the silence. Eventually she spoke again, the words spilling out in a sudden torrent, and Deryn had the feeling she had been longing to tell someone this for a long, long time. "She—she was never into fabrications, like my father was. She grew up in Russia and Japan, you see, but when her father moved the family to America she fell in love with all things mechanical. She… she could fix anything…" Arty gulped, apparently struggling with her memories. Deryn felt a ghostly figure forming out of her words—one with long black hair, and Arty's eyes, and hands as nimble as Alek's were with pistons and gears, and grease-smudged cheeks, and a warm smile. "She piloted walkers for a living. Gyrothopters, too. Anything with an engine or clockwork. She was testing a prototype… one she had built herself… I was in the control cabin with her… one of the legs just… sheared right off. We crashed. I got lucky." Arty rubbed a razor-thin, perfectly straight scar slanting out of sight into her hair that Deryn hadn't noticed before. "Just a head wound and a broken leg. She… broke her neck. The doctors said she must've died instantly. They didn't even let me see the body... After that… she had been the only one who understood. The governesses, my father… 'No one will marry a wild girl like you!' 'Why can't you settle down for once?' But I didn't… I _couldn't_… so I'm going to England and then Russia. I'm supposed to stay there, I guess, with my mother's family. Dad doesn't know what to do with me. I like fabrications, sure… I could be a scientist... but no one in America will accept me, since I'm a girl. Dr. Barlow's a glorified babysitter until I can be dumped with my aunts and uncles." She finally stopped, anger crowding out the sorrow in her eyes for a second, then buried her face in her hands.

Deryn, her throat aching suddenly, reached out and squeezed Arty's shoulder, no longer finding it in herself to care what was proper for two young people supposedly of a different gender. She saw in this girl a kindred spirit. _Losing the only person who ever understood her… Everyone trying to force her to be something she's not…_ She and Arty had gone different routes, however. Deryn had completely abandoned her old identity, dressing as a boy and joining the military to fly like she loved. Arty, too, had ditched her skirts, but with trousers being vaguely acceptable in America, she hadn't yet had a chance to leave her old self behind.

And she hadn't yet escaped her family, either. She was still doing what her father wanted, all by herself and struggling to keep her chin above water.

Deryn reckoned it was time she had a friend.

"If it's any comfort," she said softly, looking at where Arty's eyes would be if they weren't covered with her hands, "the both of us together have lost the same as Alek has."

One dark blue eye appeared. "Yes. Prince Aleksandar. I read about him, too." She wiped at her eyes one last time and gave a snuffling laugh. "Wouldn't my governess go crazy seeing us now. 'You must never let the gentlemen take liberties, or they'll think you're a—horror of horrors—_fresh girl_!'"

Deryn let go of her shoulder instantly, stepping back. "If it makes you uncomfortable…" she began.

"Oh, not at all. I know you don't mean anything by it, except as a fellow half-orphan." She gave a crooked smile. "It's just, poking fun at others helps _me_ cope." Bowing, she gestured grandly at the rest of the gastric channel, as a gentleman would pay courtesy to his lady. Deryn snorted and felt her normal grin slip back onto her face. "Now, Dylan, where's the rest of that tour you've promised me?"

* * *

**LET'S ALL GO ON CRYING JAGS NOW~**

**OK, in her defense, Deryn wasn't _actually _crying. And neither was Arty... quite. Everybody loves strong female characters! :D**

**Deryn, Arty, and Alek are like the Parent-Deprived Club... XD See, the easiest way to create conflict in someone's past is to kill one of their parents off... and Scott-la and I both took the lazy way out... oops ;D**

**Since there is absolutely nothing of historical significance in this chapter (oops again), I shall close by imploring y'all, yet again, to REVIEW!**


	4. In Which Someone Is Met

**A/N: Another week, another chapter. This one is shorter (again) and not all that action-packed (again). Please do bear with it; I promise that Chapter 5 will make up for it ;)**

**This week's featured guest review (just kidding, there was only the one. Actually, it was a review of Chapter 2, but it got posted after Chapter 3, so... uh... I'm replying now,):**

**Guest (again): I'm glad you think there's some action; personally I thought the beginning rather slow, and the main plot point doesn't show up until more than halfway through, but if it's satisfying, it's satisfying ;) Showing promise is good, as far as characters go, and I certainly HOPE Volger being his godfather isn't too much of a stretch. And yes, you definitely should get an account; even if you're not going to write anything, it's worth it. Thanks for reviewing and for being so complimentary! :)**

**DISCLAIMER: Do I _seem _like a middle-aged man good enough at writing to earn a living? Because, I assure you, I'm not.**

* * *

"Right, then. Enough of that." Deryn cleared her throat, wondering if Arty felt suddenly closer to her as well. Of course, _she_ didn't know how similar they were—all she saw of Deryn was a young midshipman who had lost his father. And compared to Arty's gush of confessions, her choked replies must have seemed barking pitiful and closed-off. "Up this way we keep the Huxleys and the bees. Also, the heads are over here. Of course, you won't want a tour of those, but it's nice to know, aye?"

"What're—oh. Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go!" Arty joked, and then sobered up a squick. "Wait, what are Huxleys? And bees—like _honey_bees?"

"Aye. Honeybees. Here we are, then—have a look for yourself." Deryn fearlessly snagged a bee with both hands and held it there, its wings tickling her palms. "They don't have any stingers—when I first saw them, I thought they were weapons, like the fléchette bats and strafing hawks, but they just make honey to feed the airbeast." The bees went out as the airship flew over flowers, collecting nectar that they turned into honey, which would eventually become hydrogen—that which wasn't used in the galley, anyway, since it was perfectly normal and sweet. Right now, since the _Leviathan_ was over the ocean, all the bees were inside the warm gut, and most were already in hibernation. Even the straggler Deryn had caught was sluggish.

"Exactly. Why waste time building your own feeding system when there's a perfectly efficient one already made by Mother Nature herself?" Arty peered at Deryn's cupped hands, and she opened them to reveal the fuzzy yellow-and-black bee perched calmly on her thumb. After permitting a few moments of close scrutiny, the bee buzzed off. Deryn remembered, with a sudden clarity, the last time she had shown someone the bees. That someone had been Dr. Barlow, and it was here that she had almost guessed Deryn's secret, noticing how smooth her cheeks were for a sixteen-year-old boy. Luckily, she had instead guessed that Deryn was underage—also true, since she was fifteen.

"All right, then," Arty continued briskly. "Show me the Huxleys, whatever they are."

"Well, their proper name is 'Huxley ascender.' Named after the boffin who fabricated them, of course. One of the first hydrogen breathers. They're a mix of jellyfish, medusae, and other primitive sea beasties. But I reckon it'd help if I just showed you."

"Um, yes. _Jellyfish_?"

"Well, they certainly don't look like the _Leviathan_. We use them as scouts—hang a hapless middy off of one until his bum freezes dead off and make him watch for something," Deryn continued, walking to the shadow-cloaked edge of the catwalk. Tweeting her whistle again to light up some more glowworms, Deryn reached up and grabbed a fistful of Huxley tentacles, which resembled ropes dangling from the ceiling, hanging from them and letting her weight pull the Huxley down. As it descended, she let go and then quickly snatched another handful of tentacles closer to the Huxley's gasbag. "They use the tentacles to gather insects, pollen, and such," she grunted, her boots dangling off the ground as she continued to climb hand over hand, slowly jerking the Huxley into the light as she had been taught.

Arty gaped as the Huxley emerged from the shadows, light shining off of the bulging, irregular surface of its gasbag. It _did_ bear a resemblance to a jellyfish, albeit a huge floating one wrapped in toad's skin. She recovered her voice as Deryn reached the pilot's rig. "How much weight can they lift? How high?"

"Well, this one's a juvenile still, which is why I can pull it down like this. But a full-grown one can take a skinny wee lad like me up a mile or so. Thing is, they're easily spooked, and when they spook, they do this. _Oi_!" she shouted at the Huxley, which shivered once, like a poor wee rabbit confronted by a fox, and vented a rush of hydrogen through its gills, plummeting towards the ground. Deryn jumped free at the last second, retaining a grip on the steel ring where an anchoring rope was meant to be tied and easily holding the deflated Huxley near the ground. "They'll take a dive for the ground, and although they're not bothered by an impact at any velocity, their riders aren't always so lucky. But there're ballast tanks full of water so you can slow your fall. See, the pilot's meant to sit here," she swung herself easily up onto the curved leather seat, "and you buckle yourself in like this. Your bum gets sore after a while, though. On my first day in the Service, there was the biggest storm London's ever seen. Fair near ripped up buildings, it did, and sent hippoesques tumbling head over heels! Anyway, my Huxley's anchor rope broke, and I was set loose, free-ballooning for barking _six_ hours until the _Leviathan_ came and got me. My bum was sore as anything! Normally you're tied to a cable here," she kicked the anchor ring, "or you have gliding wings attached to your rig. You signal the ground with semaphore signals," she moved her arms in an example, "or you send a lizard down. I remember once, a walker was closing in and about to blow the ship to blazes, and I was the only one who could warn the captain. Thing was, my lizard wasn't nippy enough down the rope, so I had to make a sliding escape—made a sort of handle out of my harness and slid down the cable."

Arty's eyes were as wide as saucers. "Quite a life you lead," she muttered as Deryn swung herself down and the Huxley sulkily returned to the upper reaches of the gut.

* * *

After a quick swing down to the gondola to drop off Tazza, Deryn and Arty headed for the spine. Deciding that it would be a wee bit cruel to make her climb the ratlines all the way up, Deryn led the way to the starboard engine pod via the gastric channel. She paused to deliver a lecture on the ladder up. "Normally, an airbeast like this would have four electrical motivator engines," she began. "They provide fine control and keep the beastie from getting lazy and drifting. Most of its push comes from cilia—wee grassy bits on the flanks that push the air like oars and propel it along."

Arty nodded, not appearing bothered by the strain of hanging from the ladder. "That makes sense. Bacteria and such use cilia to locomote—it's not such a stretch to macroscopic movement, too. But… when I saw the _Leviathan_ from the outside… it looked like two of the engines were _smoking_."

"Aye, that they were. That's how Alek ended up on this ship." Arty opened her mouth, clearly puzzled, and Deryn let go of the ladder quickly to hold up a restraining hand. "Let me explain. We crashed in the Alps—got shot down by Clanker planes—and he just happened to be in the same valley, hiding from his mates, the Germans. Maddest thing I ever saw—he came up pretending to be a Swiss smuggler out for a romp on the glacier. Anyway, we took him prisoner, and since the Germans shot our starboard and port engine pods to blazes, he gave us the engines from his Cyklop Stormwalker."

Arty nodded. "We've got those in the States. Clever bit of two-legged war machinery. And the engines work?"

"Aye. Their bits are all mixed up, but they, along with the cilia, make the _Leviathan_ the nippiest thing in European skies. We go sixty miles an hour at full-ahead. Put on your hood—the engine pods are open."

Arty nodded, dipping her goggles and tugging up her hood. Deryn did the same, then climbed up and out of the hatch into the bitter air. By the sound of them and the feel of the wind against her cheeks, the engines were going at quarter speed again, and the sun was dipping towards the horizon in an early winter sunset. She deftly ran across a support strut, then swung herself easily down into the starboard engine pod, its windscreen providing much-appreciated shelter from the wind.

She was surprised to find Alek there, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, manning the saunter alone. He smiled when he saw her and took a step forward, but she gave him a warning glance just as Arty's boots thudded to the floor. His smile wavered just a bit, but he recovered with the remarkable speed bestowed by years of posh princely tutoring. "Hello," he said, pushing up his goggles, his fingertips leaving a smear of black engine grease on his face.

Deryn nodded and smiled quickly. "Hello. Feeling like a waste of hydrogen again, are we?" The crew called anything useless a waste of hydrogen, referring to the extra hydrogen needed to lift it. Alek got that way sometimes, daft as it was. He felt… out of place as a Clanker prince on a Darwinist airbeast, and sometimes only tinkering with mechanical contraptions could make him pick up again.

Of course, he hadn't been up here much since his mechanic mates had stayed behind in America, and he didn't have much political blether to worry about, since he wasn't a prince anymore. Something else was bothering him.

He looked down, unwilling to hold her gaze. "I suppose so," he said after a moment.

She settled herself on a protruding tangle of gears, gesturing for Arty, who was examining the plundered guts of the Stormwalker with avid interest, to continue what she was doing. "What did Dr. Barlow want?"

Alek lowered his voice. "She called Volger in and forced me to tell him about the letter."

Deryn sucked in a breath. "How does she know? Did she… see us?" Of course, it wouldn't be so bad if Dr. Barlow had seen Alek chucking the letter over the side and them kissing. She knew Deryn's secret, after all. But _still_…

Alek shrugged. "That woman has ways and means we don't want to know about. But anyway, Volger got spitting mad and yelled at me. Apparently he's my godfather. He's coming with us to Russia, by the way."

Deryn frowned. "That's brilliant. Another meddler." She sighed. "_Godfather_? He barking hates your guts!"

Wrinkling his nose and opening his mouth, Alek was about to speak when Arty strode over. "Hey," she said breathlessly to no one in particular and turned to Alek. "Ingenious improvisation you have there. The pistons especially. How did you adapt it so that it drove the propeller at specific speeds?"

Alek launched into an explanation, and Deryn half turned away, gazing down at the sparkling waves below. The wind was picking up, blowing the tops of the waves into trails of spray. She felt a weight land on her shoulder and reached up to scratch Bovril's wee head. The beastie always seemed to know when she was down.

And down she was. What had seemed like a clear path stretching away into the future was now murky and gray. She had no guarantee from Alek, no promise that he loved her as much as she did him. She _thought_ he did, of course, but they couldn't stay together like this forever. The war was still raging in Europe, and they were about to return to the center of the hornets' nest. They would be leaving the _Leviathan_ and striking out with no clear plan. What if Alek suddenly decided he'd rather be a Clanker? Where would that leave _her_?

And besides, even if they _did_ stay together, they'd have to hide themselves for an indeterminate length of time. Deryn was dressed in trousers, after all, and she didn't plan on returning to skirts and corsets any time soon. There was so much _freedom_ in being a boy; freedom to act how she wanted, freedom to wander, freedom to do what she loved.

It wasn't _her_ barking fault, being a girl. She'd had no say in it.

Of course, maybe it was everyone's fault, as Alek had once said—everyone's fault that the world was like it was, that Deryn had had to pretend to be someone she wasn't just to act like she wanted.

Briefly Deryn remembered Lilit, her adventurous spirit and her outspoken ways. She had managed the same trick Deryn had—acting like a boy—without going around in trousers. Of course, she had been a revolutionary, and once the revolution in Istanbul was over, they'd had no more use for her and her talk of women's rights and had shipped her off to America.

Deryn turned and cleared her throat, interrupting Arty's and Alek's conversation. She felt an irrational pang of jealousy seeing them talking and Alek gesturing animatedly, explaining some mechanical concept to Arty, who was nodding along knowledgeably. She was relating to Alek on a level Deryn never could—the level of gears and pistons, oil and saunters. Perhaps Arty was lucky, being trapped between the two ways of life, Darwinist and Clanker. Deryn had never felt quite comfortable in Istanbul, out of her element among steam pipes and walkers, and Arty probably loved both Clanker contraptions and fabricated beasties.

Besides, Arty was quite pretty. Perhaps prettier than—Deryn cut the thought off. Alek would never look at another girl. He was hers.

"'Scuse me," she said, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes and trying to sound unconcerned. "Sorry to interrupt your wee Clanker-fest, but the sun's setting." It was now, actually, in a range of brilliant red and orange hues. "We ought to be eating dinner sometime soon. In the middies' mess," she added to Arty, who nodded and stepped across the strut, through the hatch, and into the airship with the grace of either a born airman or an acrobat.

Deryn must've not pulled off unconcerned convincingly enough, however, because Alek lingered on the way in. "Meet me in my cabin, tonight at ten," he breathed in her ear.

She nodded and exited the engine pod, her heart pounding. Apparently they had something else to talk about. Something that Arty shouldn't hear.

* * *

**Oooooh, a secret rendezvous! ;D Y'all know what's coming... and now you shall have to wait a week :) It's so FUN being evil.**

**On a similar topic, depressing spiels are surprisingly fun to write. Seriously, they're minorly addicting. As is, when writing Deryn, sticking "barking" in at every opportunity, including the bits that aren't dialogue :D So I indulge myself like a three-year-old and slap it on excessively. Besides, it's utterly canon. Deryn wouldn't be Deryn without "barking"! (Or "bloody," or "bum-rag," or the ever-popular "blisters"... why do they all start with "b"?)**

**We're up to ten reviews now! TEN! That's over three per chapter! Help build the stockpile, and maybe I'll take pity on you and release Chapter 5 a day or two early ;) REVIEW!**


	5. In Which There Is Snogging

**A/N: HAPPY (late) CHRISTMAS, DEAR READERS! (I planned to post this on Christmas as promised. BUT THEN FanFiction's server was a spaz, and WiFi was nowhere to be found. So actually, happy Boxing Day!)**

**Or, if you prefer, happy early New Year's! Or happy late Hanukkah! Or happy early/late whatever-you-celebrate! Or just happy secular holidays in general! "Happy" is the bit I want to convey, really. I myself am feeling rather happy now. Not the least of which is this chapter, which reminds me—**

**Fair warning: As you may possibly have been able to tell from the title (not to mention, you know, the end of Chapter 4), this chapter—surprise—contains fluff. Quite a lot of it. In fact, I do believe it gives cotton candy and/or various seasonal treats a run for their money in the sheer teeth-rotting department. If you are a Dalek shipper (and, let's face it, who in this fandom ISN'T?), then this is a good thing. If you aren't, well, rest assured that I did cram a plot development in there, as well as a philosophical rant or two, courtesy of our dear friend Alek.**

**ONWARD TO THE GUEST REVIEWS!**

**ChickenScrivens: Indeed, you ARE my favorite guest! *hugs* And I am glad I have something to call you mentally, now. *bows* Oh, I DO hope that my writing has maintained its standards, and I am glad you think so. As for your quote there: it WAS rather, ah, possessive, yes, and I am glad you found it funny c: More than that, I'm actually just glad you like this enough to HAVE a favorite quote. *salutes* I shall TRY to keep it up, and I believe I have maintained my promise, cap'n. (If a day late. It's still two days early!) TÊTE-À-TÊTES FOR ALL!**

**DISCLAIMER: I-AM-NOT-SCOTT-WESTERFELD-AND-I'D-TELL-YOU-IF-I-WERE. STORY TIME!**

* * *

Alek sat on his bed, drumming his fingers and checking his watch incessantly. He wished he had asked Deryn to come earlier; waiting for her was driving him mad. Every second he wasn't seeing her weighed heavily on his mind, dragging its feet and taunting him cruelly.

Of course, he had had things to do earlier. Dinner with Arty in the middies' mess had been…interesting, to say the least. She was certainly a charming speaker, but she never shut up except to shovel food into her mouth. She had Deryn's voracious appetite, it seemed.

The midshipman had sat quietly through the dinner, looking slightly ill at ease. Alek had felt the same way. It was infinitely frustrating to be sitting across the table from the girl he loved and not be able to talk about what he wanted with her. Besides the few snatched moments in the engine car, he hadn't had a chance to bring her up to date about Volger.

He had glimpsed the wildcount, who had looked unusually pensive, in the corridors after dinner, but hadn't had a chance to speak with him. Arty's presence was definitely limiting in other ways besides Deryn.

A soft rap came at his door, and he jumped up to open it, his heart pounding faster. It was ridiculous how this girl could get his heart rate up.

Her smile was teasing as she stepped softly in and locked the door behind her, Bovril sitting bright-eyed on her shoulder. As Alek opened his mouth to greet her, she all but flung herself into his arms and silenced him with a kiss. Alek abandoned himself to the feel of her lips on his. He wasn't the only one lonely after an afternoon of enforced distance, it seemed.

Eventually, but all too soon, she pulled back slightly, laying one hand on his cheek and leaving the other on his shoulder. "Shhh," she said softly, holding his gaze, and Bovril imitated the noise. "Arty's cabin is right through the wall."

The sound of her loving voice was as stunning to Alek as a concussive German shell. He nodded dumbly, drawing her down on the bed next to him and putting his arm around her. She somehow contrived to rest her head on his shoulder, despite the fact that she was taller than he. Bovril stretched contently out across their laps and blinked up at them. "Together," it said happily.

"Aye, beastie. Together," Deryn replied, taking Alek's hand. He felt her shoulders shake as she laughed silently.

A happy silence stretched out, both of them simply breathing in the presence of the other, until Deryn spoke. "What was it you wanted to talk about?" she asked drowsily.

Alek sighed, having forgotten momentarily with her touch and not being eager to return to his less-than-perfect world. "Um, like I said in the engine car, Volger and Dr. Barlow know now about the letter."

He felt, rather than saw, her grin. It was decidedly odd not being to see her expressive face while they talked, but he had a feeling he'd grow accustomed to it, like he had so many other new things—first the less-than-royal life in the Stormwalker, then the routines of the _Leviathan_, Istanbul, New York, and so many other new places.

He would be venturing into the unknown again by leaving the _Leviathan_ for the final time, but that seemed to matter less with Deryn at his side.

"I bet that wee shock went over well with Volger," she said, then snorted. "I can just picture his face. What'd he do?"

"Well, he called me a peasant whelp after I yelled at him," Alek said gloomily. "I've simply given him more ammunition to insult me with, I'm afraid."

"Speaking as a peasant whelp, there are a lot of worse things he could've called you. I'm surprised he didn't just decapitate you with his saber and be done with it."

Alek winced, picturing the blade swinging at his throat. It wasn't sharpened, but he knew from experience that it could bruise quite badly in the hands of an expert. "Alas, no. Instead, he decided he'd be accompanying us to Russia."  
"That'll be a merry gathering. Us, Arty, Dr. Barlow, and Count Volger glaring at everybody. Between the three of them we'll hardly have a moment alone!"

"We'll manage." He turned his head slightly and kissed her again, pulling back only with difficulty. "Speaking of Arty… what happened on your tour?"

"Well, apparently her ma is dead and her da's shipping her off to Russia because she's not proper enough. She's a lot like me, actually. Oh, and I accidentally told her about my da."

Alek sighed. "That's a problem. She seemed like the sort to sniff out secrets and unravel them simply for the pleasure of it."

"Aye, I reckon she's like that, too. Seems like a pure dead clever-boots to me." They sat in silence for a while, Alek pondering what effect Arty could potentially have on Deryn's life. She could make it awful, for sure, if she told a reporter or something of the sort, although it would be less of a scandal now that Deryn was planning to leave the _Leviathan_. He wondered how she felt about that. He himself would miss it, its hundred interlocking species and routines and careful aeronautical rules, as he had before when he left, but it was her home.  
Although, come to think of it, it was becoming more and more like _his_ home, too. Here was the first place he had felt as if he himself, not just his titles, were worth something; here he had been treated not as a young prince but as an equal; here he had made his first real friends.

"What's your impression of Arty?" Deryn asked finally, and Alek knew that she, too, had been mulling over the potential consequences if Arty found out.

"Well, she seems—" Alek started, but Bovril interrupted him before he could get his sentence out.

"Jealous," it said accusingly, staring up at Deryn.

Alek felt her involuntary flinch and knew it to be true. "You _are_ jealous," he said softly. "Jealous of… Arty? But you know I…" He couldn't bring himself to complete the sentence. Before, when Deryn had been jealous of Lilit, it had simply been amusing. Now it was… heart-rending, somehow, to see an indication of her doubt.

"No! I mean… blisters, Alek. I can't help it. It's just… she's so… well, she seems like she _relates_ to you. She loves machines, like you do, and I… I just never felt at home among them. In Istanbul, I felt as if I couldn't live, couldn't grow. And as much as you love the _Leviathan_, I know you're happiest among machines." She took a ragged breath. "And Arty's so… so pretty…"

Alek felt briefly shocked that Deryn could even consider such a thing. She was normally so confident, so assured of herself, that sometimes he forgot she, too, had doubts. He twisted, taking her shoulders, holding her at arm's length, and meeting her eyes. They were dry but vulnerable, so open and frankly filled with doubt that Alek felt that he was seeing into the center of her being. He paused momentarily, wondering what to say. "Deryn…" he began, but Bovril had something to say again.

"Blether," it announced briskly. "You're pretty."

Both of them smiled down at it, Alek gratefully and Deryn tremulously. "Exactly. You know it's always right, Deryn. You are—if you thought that I would take her over you because of—for God's sake, do you think I _care_ how you look?"

She met his gaze again, her mouth twitching towards her usual smile, and Alek realized he had just made a _faux pas_. Well, perhaps with most girls. He had a feeling Deryn wouldn't mind as much. "Um, aye?" she said querulously.

Bovril giggled, and they both joined it after an instant. The laughter bubbled up inside of Alek until he was bent over and gasping for breath. Every time he made eye contact with Deryn, they both burst into new paroxysms of hilarity. Eventually he sat back and wiped the happy tears from his eyes. "All right, I'll rephrase that," he said. "That was sort of, um, tactless."

"You reckon?" Deryn smirked.

"It's just…" Alek took her hand again, feeling the urge to return to sobriety. "I'm yours and you're mine, Deryn. I don't want you to ever think differently. Perhaps we're different… but life wouldn't be interesting if everyone were the same, would it?"

"No. Not interesting at all. And I don't credit that you would ever look at anyone else." Deryn hugged him gently, and he allowed himself to relax into her embrace. "The future just seems… unclear right now, that's all."

Alek nodded, wordless for the moment but understanding what she meant. Who knew where life would take them? They _were_ very different, and although their chances of staying together were greater than they were back when Alek was heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne and Deryn was teetering on the edge of international discovery, their paths might yet diverge.

And all because of the war, this terrible, terrible war that tore apart families, caused heartbreaking grief countless times over, and left politics and niceties and the comforts of life in tatters. It was almost as destructive as the passage of time itself, and certainly more explosive and unpredictable.

Or perhaps not so unpredictable. By Deryn's accounts of British politics and Alek's impressions back in Austria, events had been escalating towards war for years. It wasn't just clumsy politics—people had _wanted_ war, this atrocity, and _worked_ towards it.

People like the Germans, for example. They fought simply because of lifestyle differences—petty things, animal over machine, mere trifles that—apparently—were important enough for hundreds of thousands of men to die for.

And, although he no longer felt that he bore the guilt of those deaths on his own shoulders by his mere existence—it wasn't _his_ fault his parents had been murdered, as Deryn had pointed out on numerous occasions—Alek still felt that he should do everything in his power to bring peace back to the world.

"Poor laddie," said Deryn, cocking her head and taking his face in her hands. "You've realized how mucked-up everything is, haven't you?" Alek nodded again, and she gently rubbed the calloused end of her thumb across his cheek. As she began to lean in, the door of the stateroom banged open with a resounding crash.

Alek jumped to his feet, whipping his hands behind his back, and Deryn sat up straight on the bed. He heard her mutter, "Barking spiders," under her breath as Eddie Malone stuck his beaming, unshaven head into the stateroom.

The awful man was just _everywhere_, snooping into everyone's business for material for his dreadfully overblown newspaper articles. Alek and Deryn had run afoul of him before, of course, but he had never quite been audacious enough to bang into Alek's bedroom at ten o'clock at night.

The ubiquitous notebook and pen were produced as Malone's eyes went from Deryn to Alek and back again. Alek bit back a curse as he pictured the horrendous articles Malone could write about him and Deryn. After all, he knew Deryn was a girl.

He cut a glance back to her as Malone carefully flipped the pages of his notebook, lifting each one as if it were a sheet of gossamer. Her eyes were wide and panicky for a split second until she got her expression under control. Alek knew how she felt. Either she had _not_ locked the door, or Malone had sunk to the odious depths of lock-picking, something Alek wouldn't put past him if he were hot on the trail of a story.

Finally, Malone cleared his throat. "Sorry for barging in like this, Your Serene Highness," he said carefully, not sounding sorry at all, "but your spokesman, Wildcount Volger, has just told me you intend to renounce your claim to the Austro-Hungarian throne and also all titles of your father's line. Is this true?"

Alek, too, cleared his throat, aware that every word he uttered was being memorized by Malone's recording frog. "Yes, it is true," he said, aiming for firmness and almost achieving it.

"And is it also true that you are renouncing your ties to the Tesla Foundation?" The man's expression was maniacal, his pen scribbling furiously to capture each newsworthy word. He had previously stated that Alek was the best thing that ever happened to his career, and that certainly seemed true now.

"I do. It seems an appropr—I do," Alek said, cutting himself off at the last second. The less he said, the less he could be quoted on and the less Malone could construe from his words.

The man sized Alek up carefully, no doubt calculating just how much he could squeeze out of him. "And do you have anything to say about your choice, Aleksandar? My readers will be eager to know what you were thinking, I'm sure." Rusty, his recording frog, stared balefully at Alek, ready to memorize every word and contribute even more to the ruination of his reputation.

Alek bit the inside of his cheek, trying to think fast. He needed to say _something_, or Malone would fabricate a wildly overblown theory as to his silence—and that theory might well include Deryn in it. In all his contact with Malone, in Istanbul and America, Alek had learned one certain thing—he wasn't above breaking a promise to get his precious stories.

All this meant that Alek had to think of a sop to toss to him, and _quickly_.  
"Um," he began, wildly searching his brain for something, _anything_, that would make any sense at all. Conscious of four pairs of eyes on him, he knew his time was up, when—

"_Bella gerant alii_," murmured Bovril in his ear.  
Alek blinked. Perfect! The Hapsburg family motto actually made sense in this situation and was just unclear enough to allow slight speculation without opening the way for the wild theories either a lucid statement or a completely ambiguous one would spark. "My only comment, Mr. Malone," he said, feeling his pulse throbbing in his throat, "is this: _Bella gerant alii, tu, felix Austria, nube_. And," he added before Malone could say anything else, "that's all. I would appreciate it if you left now, Mr. Malone. Goodbye!"

Eddie Malone's eyes flicked once more to Deryn, but he held his tongue, backing out the door with his pen still scribbling. "Thank you, Aleksandar. Good night, Miss Sharp."  
And with that he was gone, the door swinging shut again behind him.

Deryn sprang to her feet as soon as he was gone, cracking the door again and peering out into the hallway. "Gone," she muttered. "That barking, lousy, evil, _sneaking_ bum-rag! There's no telling how long he was standing there, listening." She let out another string of quiet curses as she bent to pick something up from the carpet outside the door. A tiny metal object gleamed in her fingers. "Lock-pick," she said grimly, dropping it to the floor again and crushing it under her boot heel.

Alek felt justified in muttering a few curses of his own as Deryn relocked the door, rattling the knob to make sure the mechanism hadn't been permanently damaged by the reporter's meddling tools, and plopped down on the bed.  
She heaved a sigh as he sat down beside her again. "What in blazes were you _thinking_, Alek? He'll take that and run with it! And _marriage_—!" She broke off, suddenly very interested in her boots, as her cheeks colored slightly.

Alek winced and felt a blush of his own. He hadn't meant it _that_ way—or had he?

Just how much _did_ he want Deryn, exactly?

This girl was just as confusing as ever.

"Um, well, I wasn't thinking, actually," he mumbled. "Bovril suggested that, um, _particular_ phrase."

"Indeed I did," said Bovril happily, reaching up to scratch behind its own ears. "'_Nube_!'" it exclaimed, then had a good chuckle.

Deryn glared at first it and then Alek, her cheeks still a bit flushed. "That's all very well, but that was a barking _daft_ thing to say! Just think what that bum-rag could make of that!"

Her fists clenched in her lap, and Alek realized she was covering her fear with anger, still afraid that she could have everything ripped away in a few scribbles of Malone's pen.

Or maybe it wasn't herself she was worrying about. Her frown as she met Alek's gaze was full of more concern for him than for herself. "He could ruin _both_ our lives," she said softly.

"He could, yes, but he won't." Alek took one of her fists, prizing her fingers apart and squeezing her hard. "Don't you see, Deryn, I gave him enough to satisfy him but not enough to actually give anything away. He _can't_ make a lot out of that. You're safe. _We're_ safe."

Her eyes shone with the realization of what he'd done, and Alek felt a surge of joy just seeing her so obviously happy. He wanted to keep her like this, he realized, happy and safe and in his arms forever.

And he didn't care how long or how hard he had to work for it.

"Well, then," Deryn said almost shyly, sliding her hand up his neck and trailing sparks across his skin, "I reckon I owe you some thanks for what you've done."

* * *

**Aaaaaand... cut!**

**:3 Yup, I just pulled a bonus chapter on y'all. :D In my defense, though, I really can't write love scenes. Sickening fluff, yes. Love scenes... not so much.**

**You know, I think Deryn is enjoying being a bad influence... XD And those bumrag (when it's an adjective, it's not hyphenated, apparently. Has anyone else noticed this, or is it just my derpy ebook being derpy?) reporters! If you paid attention to the last chapter of _Goliath_ *hint, hint*, that should date this quite nicely, I should think.**

**ANYWAY, I shall now discuss the origin of this chapter, which is amusing, and which I didn't want to put in the first part of the A/N, since that was far too long already. (EVERYBODY YELL AND TELL CHICKENSCRIVENS TO GET AN ACCOUNT SO I CAN STOP CLUTTERING UP MY A/NS WITH REVIEW REPLIES. ;D) So, my friend heard that I was writing a fic, and she would NOT shut up about wanting me to add, and I quote, "a snogging scene." (EVEN THOUGH SHE HADN'T ACTUALLY READ THE BOOKS.) After hearing this mentioned at least ten times in two days, I finally gave in and wrote this, just to make her be quiet. So you have her to thank for it. (Of course, I myself am not a crazed Dalek shipper suffering from chronic lack of canon fluff. No. What are you talking about?)**

**Also, something that was suggested I clear up by a reader. Just in case a few of you are rusty with your Latin/motto/obsessive-fan-that-looks-everything-up skills, "nube" quite literally means "you shall marry." Yes, I know it's weird that one word is the equivalent of three, but Latin is weird, too, and that's just how it works. So hopefully Bovril's comment makes slightly more sense now :3**

**Before you ask, yes, I do believe Chapter 6 should be up on Saturday or thereabouts, schedule permitting. (I am traveling in a god- and WiFi-forsaken place, and as we all know, that wreaks havoc with one's updates.) But perhaps not, if I do not get my chapterly review quota... so REVIEW!**


	6. In Which a Lesson Is Given

**A/N: _Guten Tag_! Or whatever time it is for you right now. Welcome to Chapter 6, the second part of your holiday present. (Technically, it's just on time, but since it's only two days after last chapter, I think it counts, yes?)**

**This is longer than the last ones, thankfully. (Though it ain't got nothin' on Chapter 7. ;D) Also, not the most action-packed of chapters, although there may be a few things you recognize in there. (This is called "rhyming action," "referencing," or, alternatively, "nicking stuff." And since last chapter had no guest reviews...**

**DISCLAIMER: I am NOT Scott Westerfeld and therefore do NOT own any of this. Especially that bold part down a ways, which is quoted directly from... well, darned if I know the page number, but the last chapter of _Goliath_. (I _did _come up with the title...)**

* * *

The next morning Deryn found herself excused from her first watch in order to babysit Arty again. Apparently Dr. Barlow was too busy herself to attend to her apprentice, but she was merciful enough to retain Tazza, at least.

Breakfast was gloomy, to say the least. Yesterday's wispy clouds and bright sunshine had been replaced with a thick layer of roiling storm clouds, and the chill managed somehow to creep in through the windows of the middies' mess and drop the temperature at least five degrees.

At least the cold kept Deryn awake. She must've yawned a million times during breakfast, thanks to her rather late night.

Arty was as lively as a pup, blethering away to a rather overawed Newkirk nonstop. Deryn had to hide a grin behind her coffee mug at how he hung onto her every word, eyes wide as saucers. It was as if he'd never seen an outspoken girl before—or maybe it was the unashamedly worn trousers.

Funny, that. He saw Deryn herself every barking day, but, of course, he didn't perceive _her_ as a girl. Deryn had a sneaking suspicion that even Alek forgot once in a while.

Of course, he was learning… and she was certainly doing her best to remind him at every opportunity.

* * *

Deryn decided to take Arty up to the spine today in hopes of seeing Alek; the bum-rag hadn't bothered getting up for breakfast, one privilege of not being a middy.

She also, in a spirit of inquiry—perhaps it was just a _squick_ of revenge for the limitations of Arty's presence, although that was something she couldn't help—decided to take Arty the quick way up the ratlines. She had managed somehow to procure her own flight suit overnight, so they headed up with no further delays.

Arty was definitely impressive. She kept up with Deryn quite nicely and didn't need her safety harness once, despite the difficulty—which Deryn was all too familiar with—of the climb for someone unused to it. She also didn't complain at all, although Deryn caught her puffing and stopped halfway, allegedly to enjoy the view. Arty seemed to appreciate this tacit compliment and expressed her gratitude by shutting up the rest of the way up.

When they finally attained the spine, she gaped once again, and Deryn smiled to herself. It was dead pleasant to see Arty, who was frankly a bit of a clever-boots, _surprised_ by something.

The wind was biting, but the clouds had lifted into a pearly gray ceiling, and the entire horizon was spread out for their scrutiny—miles and miles of monotonous steel-gray waves, but still. Deryn led the way along the dorsal scales, pointing out anti-aircraft guns—powered by compressed air, of course—and Huxley winches. Arty stamped the scales, obviously impressed. "What are they made of? Are they bulletproof?" she asked.

"They're made of keratin, like your fingernails or an equine's hooves," Deryn replied. "And, aye, they're bulletproof, mostly. Never known them to crack." She indicated a winch. "They've got to be barking strong, to hold the weight of one of those—well, actually, they're made of aluminum—"

Arty frowned and interrupted. "Al-you-min-yum?" she asked slowly.

Deryn blinked in surprise. Did Miss Boffin _not_ know something? "Aye, aluminum. The element? Lightweight silvery metal?"

She laughed. "Oh, you mean _aluminum_." She pronounced it "uh-loo-mi-num." "Different American pronunciation, I guess. Carry on."

"Um, anyway," Deryn stumbled, "they're made of aluminum, to be as light as possible, but they're plenty heavy anyway, and a Huxley tugs on one barking hard." She made a pushing motion upward with one hand. "Like a great balloon."

Arty nodded. "Can I go up in one? A Huxley, I mean?" she asked suddenly.

It was an odd question, aye, but it was also something Deryn would've asked to do, if she had been a passenger on an airship. "Aye, why barking not?" she said, glancing at Arty's face. It was excited, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at Newkirk's ascender. "You're not afraid of heights, are you?" she asked. "Not a squick? It's higher than it looks, I reckon."

Shaking her head, Arty strode over to one of the winched-down Huxleys, boosting her bum into the seat. "Not at all," she said determinedly, fiddling with the leather straps of the pilot's rig. "I fly gyrothopters, remember?"

"Aye," Deryn muttered, cinching the shoulder straps as tightly as she could and then moving on to the waist strap, taking care to preserve Arty's modesty. She remembered, suddenly, how a young airman had done the same for her one dawn at the end of June, just prior to the "air sense" test the Service put all its aspiring middies through.

_That_ Huxley ascension, Deryn's first, had almost ended very badly indeed, but, luckily, it hadn't—instead of her and her Huxley winding up a greasy squick on the ground, she had come here, to the _Leviathan_, to her home.

Maybe, just maybe, Alek's blether about "providence" had a squick of sense in it after all.

"Now, lassie, this is a pure dawdle. _All you have to do_," she stressed, "is sit tight and try not to jig about too much. Remember what I told you—Huxleys spook easily, and believe me, you _don't want that_. If you do something _completely_ daft, it'll dive, and you pull the ballast cord." She pressed it into one of Arty's hands and tied one of her own semaphore flags around the wrist of the other. "Throw that if anything goes wrong," she ordered, and smiled to herself as she remembered how that younger Deryn—blisters, that seemed so long ago and so far away, although it was a squick less than six months since then—had agonized over whether to throw her signal as a massive storm threatened.

"I'll send you up a thousand feet for ten minutes or so," she continued, making a final check of Arty's straps and reaching for the brake on the winch. "Wouldn't want your bum to get frostbitten, now would we?"

Arty beamed, looking not the least squick nervous. "No, that we wouldn't."

Deryn unlocked the winch and watched the cable markings carefully as the Huxley floated skyward, hardly slowed by Arty's weight. She wondered for a moment if the beastie enjoyed going up high into the air, where the air currents were clearer and its food floated all about. But that was daft. Huxleys were as dumb as their jellyfish ancestors—they didn't even have a centralized nervous system, let alone consciousness.

Hitting the brake as the Huxley reached a thousand feet, she squinted as a curious shape clambered onto the topside. It took her a squick to realize that the curious silhouette was Alek, Bovril riding on his shoulder and a wildly flapping something doing its level best to escape from his grip. As he drew closer, the object he was clutching resolved itself into a newspaper.

Deryn waved energetically, wondering how in blazes he had gotten a newspaper up the ratlines. Alek broke into a run, and as he stopped she greeted him with a grin, conscious of the many riggers scattered about repairing damage to the _Leviathan_'s membrane, and a shouted, "Are you a _Dummkopf_?"

"What do you mean?" He struggled to pin the newspaper into something resembling its original shape, and a few pages made good their escape, snapping open like paper parachutes and whisking off in the wind.

"_Dummkopf_," snorted Bovril, and it giggled. "Quite true."

Deryn pointed, just in case Alek was being daft today and hadn't figured it out yet. "Your newspaper's going to blow right away, Alek."

"Yes, but this is important." He managed to fold a page and pointed triumphantly to an article. "Eddie Malone has already written his article, it seems."

"His—oh." Deryn took the newspaper, squinting at the flapping words, her heart being just a squick faster despite everything Alek had said last night.

Blisters, but the possible ruination of Alek's international reputation was _frightening_.

There, under a headline screaming, "**HEIR TO THE THRONE BECOMES COMMONER**," was the article.

**In a surprise announcement last night, His Serene Highness Aleksandar of Hohenberg, putative heir to the empire of Austria-Hungary, renounced his claim to all the lands and titles of his father's line, including the imperial throne itself. This extraordinary news has shaken his war-ravaged country, many of whose embattled citizens have quietly embraced the fugitive prince as a symbol of peace.**  
**It is unclear whether Prince Aleksandar would have taken the throne in any case. His claim was based on a papal bull that has not been verified by the Vatican, and which is contested by the current emperor, Franz Joseph. Indeed, as Russian victories mount on the eastern front, it is unclear whether the Austro-Hungarian Empire will exist at all once the Great War is over.**  
**In a declaration of lesser importance, Aleksandar also renounced his ties to the Tesla Foundation, which is raising money to repair the late inventor's facility in Shoreham, New York. The prince's relationship with the organization had been under strain since the announcement that it was he who shut down the weapon after Nikola Tesla's death, fearing for the safety of nearby aircraft and the city of Berlin. According to his spokesman, Wildcount Ernst Volger, Aleksandar has taken a position with the Zoological Society of London, a scientific organization of royal patronage, best known for its upkeep of the London Zoo.**  
**Rumors are flying as to why an heir to one of the great houses of Europe would trade his throne, lands, and titles for the post of zookeeper. But reached by this reporter while on his way to England via His Majesty's Airship _Leviathan_, Aleksandar had only this for comment: "_Bella gerant alii, tu felix Austria, nube_."**  
**The phrase is the Latin motto of the Hapsburgs and refers to the house's tradition of gaining influence by alliance rather than conflict. It translates, "Let others wage war. You, lucky Austria, shall marry." What it might mean in this context is unclear, though it suggests to this reporter that the young prince has found the comfort of new and powerful allies.**

**Eddie Malone**  
_**New York World**_  
**December 20, 1914**

Below that was a picture of Alek wearing his Air Gallantry Cross, looking vaguely put-upon, with Volger glaring in the background.

Deryn looked up and snorted. Alek's clart-snaffling grin was almost wider than his face. "'Lucky Austria,' indeed," she said. "That bum-rag! Made you sound barking daft, he did. Not that he wasn't completely justified in doing so…"

Alek's grin only widened at the affectionate insult. "We're safe! Thank God he didn't have his camera when he broke in on us, or we would've been _dead_. Thank you, Bovril," he added, scratching under the wee beastie's chin. "If you hadn't been so prompt with your answer…"

Bovril preened. "Dead clever, I am," it chuckled. "Saved your bum again."

"That you did, beastie." Deryn reached out and took it from Alek's shoulder, ignoring the tingle as her fingers brushed against his. Here wasn't the place. "So, your ex-princeliness, why'd you come up here? Instead of, I don't know, waiting inside the airship, where it _isn't so barking windy_?" Her eyes lighted on the two fencing sabers tied around his waist. "Doesn't have to do with _those_, does it?" Deryn asked, although she already knew the answer.

His daft grin was back. "Well, I thought, since your lessons with Volger have been… suspended, you'd appreciate a fencing bout or two. You're most likely awfully out of practice, _Mr._ Sharp."

Bovril chuckled and repeated the phrase.

She gave Alek and Bovril a playful glare. "You're just sulking from all the times I whipped your Clanker bum when I _was_ in practice, _Mr._ Hohenberg. And don't say that around Arty, aye? She's had enough clues as it is."

"Where _is_ Arty, anyway?" Alek asked, his mouth twitching. "Surely Dr. Barlow hasn't been so considerate as to relieve us of her presence?"

Deryn sighed and pointed upward. "I'd like nothing better, but since when has the lady boffin been the least squick 'considerate'? No, she's up there."

"In the _Huxley_?" Alek's eyes widened, and Deryn had a sudden urge to smooth down his auburn hair, which was sticking up every which way. She wasn't sure if he'd bothered to brush it _before_ he'd come up here in all this barking wind.

_No mooning on duty, lassie!_ she reminded herself. "Aye. Just because _you_ have no air sense doesn't meant that everybody else doesn't," she smirked.

"But she's—" he started, then cut himself off. Deryn reckoned she could guess what he'd been about to say.

"A girl? I'm not the only one with ambitions towards flight, _Dummkopf_."

"Nevertheless, you are one of a kind, Deryn," Alek complimented softly, his hand twitching towards hers.

Deryn cleared her throat, wishing dearly that she could kiss him for that utterly daft and utterly sweet comment. "Thank you, but now's not the time," she reminded him softly, and then, louder, "How about that lesson?"

"Indeed," nodded Alek, quickly untying a saber and tossing it in her general direction. He had probably meant for it to go a squick closer to Deryn, but he wasn't any better at throwing swords than he was at throwing knives.

She ducked down and caught it—barely. Tying the belt around her waist—with a backhanded mooring hitch, just for a lark—she drew the saber and settled back into the _en __garde_ position. She still thought she looked like a barking teapot, but at least, after months of lessons, she could rest assured that she was a _correctly positioned_ barking teapot. "On guard, sir," Deryn cried, taking a completely improper swipe at Alek's own half-unsheathed saber.

He scowled playfully, twisting away from her point and positioning his own feet. He frowned at her posture, extending his saber, and advised, "More weight on your back foot. Always was your failing," he added smugly.

Deryn winked at him. "Come over here and make me," she teased. "I always was your barking mannequin."

Alek turned slightly red at this. Deryn rolled her eyes—barking proper Clankers!—but readjusted her weight and, before he had a chance to ready himself, lunged.

Alek swiftly parried and riposted, forcing Deryn to shuffle quickly backward. Although her arm already burned, she brought her point back up and narrowed her eyes at her ex-prince. "So be it," she said, grinning, and lunged again.

* * *

A few bouts later, Deryn was winning 3-2. Panting and looking down at her point, which was currently poking him dead over his heart, Alek ventured, "How long are you going to leave Arty up there?"

"Nice try—oh, _barking spiders_!" Deryn cried, whipping out her watch. "She's been up there nearly twenty minutes! I said only ten!"

Alek smirked. "Am I really that distracting?"

"Aye," Deryn said offhandedly, spinning the crank of the winch as fast as she could, and smiled to herself as she saw Alek blush out of the corner of her eye.

Soon enough Arty was low enough so that Deryn could see her gigantic grin without the aid of her field glasses. Bovril chuckled and said, "Enthusiastic girl," into Deryn's ear.

Deryn smiled and stroked it, feeling her face heat slightly at the repetition of something Alek had called her last night. "That she is," she agreed quietly, winching the last few yards of cable down and turning to give Arty a hand with her harness.

Naturally, Arty already had it halfway unbuckled, despite Deryn's best attempts at buckling it gut-squeezingly tight, and was talking a mile a minute.

"That was so incredible! I could see for miles! Well, of course I could see just as far if the _Leviathan_ was up that high, but it's so different up in the Huxley, without any membrane blocking your view! It must be absolutely fabulous when you're over a metropolitan area!"

Deryn smiled, stepping back to let her jump off. "Glad you liked it, lassie. Sorry that it took so long—"

Arty waved this off as a minor concern, her grin widening still further. "It was fine—in fact, thanks for letting me stay up longer!" At this point she appeared to notice Alek for the first time. "Oh, hello, Prince Alek! Since when have you been up here?" she asked, pushing her goggles carelessly up into her pitch-black hair.

Alek coughed uncomfortably, and Deryn jumped in. "Actually, Arty, Alek's, um, not a prince anymore."

Arty's eyebrows twitched a good half inch up her forehead, her head snapping around to stare at Deryn. "Whatever do you mean?" she asked, sounding, for a squick, eerily like the lady boffin.

Deryn reached vaguely for the newspaper, but stopped as she remembered that it had long since blown away, forgotten in the heat of their bouts. "Mr. Hohenberg here," she explained, clapping Alek on the back and causing him to stumble a half step forward, "has joined the rest of us commoners. He's given up _all_ his barking titles."

"They were quite a lot to drag around," Alek muttered, for once not utterly failing at trying to make a joke.

Arty's face cleared. "So _that's_ what Dr. Barlow wanted to talk to you about," she laughed.

Deryn and Alek shared a glance—this lassie was a sharp one, for sure.

"Um, yes," Alek said. "And to answer your other question—I came up while you were in the Huxley. Dylan and I were fencing."

Arty looked back and forth between their sabers. "Yes, I see. Where'd you—oh. _Royalty_," she added disgustedly under her breath. Deryn smiled. Americans were well-known for their irreverence towards nobility of any sort, and in this case she agreed with her completely. "So you were teaching Dylan how?" Arty continued.

"More like _I_ was teaching _him_," Deryn inserted. "I was beating his ex-princeliness quite badly."

Alek muttered, "Not _that_ badly."

"Quite badly," agreed Bovril, going off into one of its maniacal laughing fits.

Arty cocked her head, smirking. "I don't suppose one of you boys could give me a lesson? I've always wanted to fence—it's not _proper_, though," she sighed.

Alek untied his belt, handing it and his saber to Arty, and stepped back, rolling his eyes. "Since Dylan is obviously the better and more experienced fencer," he deadpanned, "_he_ can give you a lesson."

Deryn pulled a face at Alek, shooing Bovril off her shoulder. "Why, thank you, Mr. Hohenberg. I'd be delighted to educate Arty."

"Blame Alek if I muck this up," she told Arty, adopting the _en garde_ position and lifting her saber. "Stand like this. Aye, you'll look a barking daftie, but some musty _Dummkopf_ centuries ago decided this was proper, so…" She shrugged.

Arty nodded, positioning herself in a halfway decent way. Deryn walked over, nudging her boots further apart and advising, "Bend your knees more. You shouldn't be able to see your toes if you look down."

"Right," Arty muttered, making the necessary adjustment. Deryn resumed her own pose.

"Now, since standing about like a pair of coat racks is _not_ educational, whatever _some_ people might say," she began with a pointed glance in Alek's direction, "watch me and try this."

* * *

**Ah, fencing fluff, that ****solace of us Dalek shippers. :D And yes, I am an aspiring fencer, but (most of) the credit for the fencing terms (I have since learned them myself, naturally) goes to my friend, whose fencing aspirations are slightly more immediate. So blame her if anything is off...**

**I do hope y'all caught the multiple references to various bits of the _Leviathan_-verse... And no, nowhere does it say the dorsal plates are made of keratin; I made that up. And it is an interesting and little-known fact that the British and American pronunciations of "aluminum" do, in fact, differ. (Watching international car shows will teach you many things.) And, courtesy of ChickenScrivens, I can now report that the Brits also _spell_ it differently, with an extra "i": "aluminium." Such variations are a mystery to me... they fall in the realm of "plough" and "plow", and "realise" and "realize"... *shakes head***

**Anyway, stay tuned for next week's chapter, which is, if I do say so myself, very interesting indeed. (It is also the Christmas chapter... heh... Great timing on my part there.) Meantime, as you yearn for yet more of this fic, fill the emptiness that threatens to consume you and REVIEW!**


	7. In Which There Is Mortification

**A/N: Greetings, dear readers! Welcome to your weekly Dalek fluff fix :D (Yes, this chapter comes bearing the promised fluffiness. How could it _not_? It's the Christmas chapter, after all. [Only ten days out of synch! Aren't you proud of me?]) I am happy to report that this is a long 'un and, I should think, sufficiently entertaining ;)**

**Guest reviews! There were two last chapter, out of a total of seven. Seven! I cannot express my thanks to y'all for your continued devotion (or at least mild interest) to this fic enough.**

**wk: Glad to hear it, and I shall :)**

**AlkahinNeverdud: Truly, that is the highest compliment you can pay me *bows***

**DISCLAIMER: If you are STILL convinced I'm Scott Westerfeld, at this point there's nothing I can do for you but advise you to see your friendly local psychologist...**

* * *

Four days later, it was, of course, Christmas Eve. It felt decidedly odd to Alek, celebrating a holiday that for him had always including Mass and a formal family dinner on a Darwinist airship whose crew seemed to use the holiday solely as an excuse to get drunk.

Dinner was, consequently, rather loud and disorderly, although the _Leviathan_'s cooks had outdone themselves with a multitude of sumptuous hams. All of the officers and most of the crew had somehow managed to stuff themselves into one mess hall, and they were enthusiastically making use of the one night a year the captain allowed alcohol. Indeed, it seemed to Alek that he and Arty were the only ones _not_ drinking. Even Dr. Barlow was sipping delicately at a glass of spiced Christmas wine, laughing loudly at something Volger had said.

Alek leaned closer to Deryn, who was watching the crew's antics with amusement and perhaps a touch of wistfulness. "Why aren't you drinking like they are?" he asked. Deryn obviously had no compunction against alcohol, as she had downed several gulps of brandy thus far, but she wasn't imbibing at nearly the rate of the rest of the crew.

She smirked, as if it were completely obvious. "Well, I can hold my liquor as well as the next Scot, but I am _not_ getting drunk. I'd start blethering, and who knows what I'd say?"

Alek nodded. When one had a secret to protect, it was probably better to remain in control of one's mental faculties. "That makes perfect sense, _Mr._ Sharp."

"But _you_—" she reached over to tap Alek's full brandy glass, making the crystal ring like a bell— "have no excuse not to drink, your ex-princeliness."

Alek smiled at her use of what had become her new nickname for him. The rest of the crew had become awkward around him, unsure how to act around or address him, but Deryn had adjusted as naturally as if he'd always been a commoner.

Perhaps, in her mind, he'd long since become one. Not that he minded.

"It's not that— I'm just—" he started.

"—remembering past Christmases?" she completed, her blue eyes soft, and Alek recalled belatedly that she must be, too—past Christmases with her family around her and her father by her side.

"You could say that," Alek replied. "This—" he gestured around himself at the noise and revelry—"is not, um, how we celebrated Christmas Eve in Austria."

"Aye?" She raised an eyebrow. "How did you celebrate, then?" Under her breath, she muttered something that sounded like, "barking Clankers."

"Well, we'd have Mass, of course, in the castle's chapel—"

"Your castle had a barking _chapel_? Of its own?" She snorted. "Pure dead fancy, that."

"Of course it had a chapel. Are you going to stop interrupting me, or do you not _want_ to hear about it?"

Deryn leaned back on two legs of her chair, planting her boots firmly on the table, and waved her hand, smirking. "Go on. I'll keep mum."

"Anyway, we'd have a dinner afterward. Family only, so my mother could attend, but our family is rather large, obviously, and it was formal, so consequently, I couldn't really talk at the table."

Deryn raised her eyebrows at this, but kept her mouth shut.

"We'd eat _Gebackener Karpfen_, which is traditional. None of this ham."

"_Karpfen_? As in carp?"

Alek decided to allow this interruption. "Fried carp, yes. And _Sachertorte_, which is a kind of chocolate and apricot cake, also traditional. Those were my favorite... our cooks would make other dishes too, of course.  
"And then we'd go to a parlor, where there'd be a lovely tree from somewhere on the estate, with candles and colored glass and crystal ornaments and gold and silver garlands. Under that, presents from the _Kristkindl_, the Christ child, although I wasn't allowed to open mine until all the guests had left, which was usually quite late. And the presents mattered less to me as I grew older." He neglected to mention how thrilled he'd been to receive his tin war figurines—the ones he'd been playing with on the night of the escape, come to think of it—last Christmas.

"No Father Christmas?" Deryn laughed.

"We don't have a Father Christmas in Austria. Although Saint Nicholas does give out small presents on December 6. I never got any then, though. That was mostly for common—um, for town children."

Deryn's mouth twitched at his hasty correction, but then she frowned. "What about your, you know, family? Your parents?"

"Like I said, it was a family dinner. Christmas is a family time, of course."

"Aye, I know that. But it sounds like… well, like your Christmases were a little _lonely_. You not being able to talk at table… and your parents were probably occupied with their guests, aye?"

Alek cleared his throat uncomfortably. All this talk of his parents was forming a hard lump in it. But it was true—his parents _were_ very busy, especially his father, and had little time for their son.

Even on Christmas.

Deryn, bless her sensitive heart, noticed something was wrong. Squeezing his hand quickly under cover of the table, she stood, pushing her chair back. "Perhaps you'd like to continue this conversation somewhere… quieter, Alek?"

"Certainly, Mr. Sharp." He followed suit and smiled up at her, wishing—not for the first time—that she wasn't taller than he.

"No one'll notice we're gone," Deryn said in a voice that made an odd tingle trace its way up and down Alek's back, waving to Arty, who was having her ear enthusiastically talked off by a red-faced and slightly slurring Newkirk. "Anything to escape this madhouse."

Alek nodded, following her out of the clamorous, brightly lit mess and into the dim, quiet passageway.

* * *

Alek's stateroom was a much better place to continue their discussion. Not that they were doing much talking, at least for the first few minutes. Deryn hardly needed an excuse, at this point.

Deryn sighed, brushing a kiss along Alek's jaw and curling up against his side, and as he put an arm around her warm shoulders, she fumbled something out of her pocket.  
"I made you a present, you daft Clanker."

Alek hugged her tighter, immediately feeling guilty. "I… um, I didn't get you anything." In truth, he hadn't even considered it. Did friends get each other Christmas presents? Did… whatever he and Deryn were?

But Deryn only laughed, joined by Bovril, whom Alek had left in his cabin during the rambunctious dinner. "I wasn't expecting one, _Dummkopf_. Besides, _anything_—or, aye, nothing—is better than what my ma got me last year."

"Which was?" Alek asked, echoed by Bovril a beat later.

Deryn made a disgusted face. "A dress. The girliest dress you've ever seen. Pink, with clartloads of ribbons and lace and a barking _million_ frills. And about twenty skirts."

"_Mr._ Sharp!" screeched Bovril in between peals of maniacal cackling.

Alek laughed hysterically, trying and failing to picture Deryn in such an outfit—although the idea of her in a dress, _any_ dress, was intriguing. He was relieved to feel Deryn start to chuckle, too. "I don't suppose you ever wore it."

"Once." Deryn grinned in a way that could only be described as wicked. "To the kirk, because my ma forced me to. And then there was an unfortunate accident with blood. And the kitchen fire."

"Was it, um, _your_ blood?"

"No." She grinned evilly again. "There are some barking annoying bum-rags at my kirk. It was worth it, even if I did get into barking big trouble for breaking a boy's nose."

Alek mock-shuddered. "Remind me to never get on your bad side."

"Reminder noted. Anyway, here's your gift, daftie." Deryn handed him a folded piece of paper, turning her face away—in embarrassment? "I know it's barking awful. Just something I did on a lark."

Alek unfolded the paper to reveal a pencil sketch, carefully colored and shaded, looking ready to jump off the page. Someone had spent an awful lot of time getting each line right, each smudge in the right place, each shadow properly colored.

It was of Alek himself, sitting on the edge of a bed, just glancing up from a book he held in his lap, a smile gracing his face, which was line-perfect.

Quite obviously, a labor of love.

He had seen Deryn sketching before, but she was very protective of her sketchpad, and he had had no idea she was _this_ good.

"This—" he began, his throat dry, his fingers resting gently on the smooth surface of the paper. He wet his mouth and tried again. "When did you do this?"

"In Istanbul." Her mouth twitched. "Which is why I haven't shown it to you before. Makes it barking obvious how much of a mooning lassie I am, doesn't it?"

Alek felt a stupid smile slip onto his face as he thought about exactly _who_ she was "mooning" over. "On the contrary, I think it shows what a wonderful artist you are, Deryn. And how much you… love this person…" his fingers tapped the sketch, "_Liebe_."

Alek caught just a glimpse of Deryn's brilliant white smile before she had him by the collar and was kissing him hard, one of his hands in her silky, short hair and one at the small of her back. He pulled her closer, almost into his lap, as she sighed against his mouth.

They were just getting started, and neither of them would've so much as come up for air, if Bovril had not made a creaking noise like a door opening.

Having long since learned to listen to Bovril with far more than just one ear, Alek pulled back—reluctantly—and glanced towards the door—which, he just then realized, _they had not locked_.

In the wide-open doorway, gaping at them like, as Deryn would say, a ninny, stood Arty, her mouth a perfect O of shock. She looked just short of clapping both her hands to her cheeks in abject horror.

Alek could only stare back at her, heat rushing to his face. He had been caught kissing a girl _on his bed_—a girl who Arty thought was a boy, at that. And rather passionate kissing, too.l

Deryn, who looked only slightly less terrified than Alek felt, still managed to give Arty a defiant "well, what are you going to do about it?" glare. Arty swallowed visibly, taking a step towards the blushing couple and oh-so-carefully shutting and locking Alek's stateroom door behind her.

She pointed a slightly shaking finger at first Deryn and then Alek and back to Deryn again, opening and closing her mouth like a beached fish. Alek winced, readying himself for the inevitable hysterically horrified outburst.

Having apparently tracked down her voice to wherever it had deserted her, Arty finally burst out, "_I thought so!_ The way you two act around each other— the way your voice sounds—"

She jabbed her finger at Deryn again. "What's your name?" She was beginning to grin, oddly enough, and Alek blinked uncomprehendingly. Was she _happy_ about how this appeared? How tolerant _were_ these mad Americans?

Deryn sighed. "Barking nosy clever-boots," she muttered. "My name is Deryn. Deryn Sharp." She gave Arty an arch look. "You'd guessed, then?"

Arty's grin widened. "Well, I had my suspicions. _Mr._ Sharp, indeed. By the way—" she suddenly looked uncomfortable— "sorry for, um, barging in on you like that. I didn't— I didn't think you'd be—" She stopped, her cheeks crimson.

"Quite all right," asserted Bovril, who looked as happy as something that didn't have lips to smile with could.

Alek cleared his throat, suddenly aware of the disarray his and Deryn's hair and clothes were in. Gently, he tugged his tie out of Deryn's lax grip, attempting to tuck his shirt tails back in without standing up or unhooking his arm from around her waist. Deryn, her normally pale cheeks as red as Alek's felt, quickly rebuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt and reknotted her tie. "Well, at least you knew Deryn was a girl," said Alek quickly. "That could've been, um, awkward." He attempted a smile, although he was just happy that he'd managed to finish two sentences in a row without trailing off.

Arty's mouth quirked, and she took a seat on the edge of Alek's desk—without first asking permission, but honestly, at this point, Alek couldn't care less. "I _suspected_ that she was a girl. There's a world of difference, believe me. You two still gave me, um, quite the shock."

"Undoubtedly," said the loris, chuckling again. It appeared to be taking a sadistic delight in laughing at its masters' misfortune.

Arty turned her inquisitive sapphire gaze on Deryn, cocking her head. "How long has he known?" she demanded.

Alek frowned, upset at being talked about as if he weren't right there in the room with him. First Lilit and now Arty, who had seemed perfectly nice and friendly, if a bit talkative. Was this a conspiracy between all girls? "Excuse me, I'm right here," he said coldly.

Arty started to apologize, but Deryn cut her off with an airy wave of her hand. "Don't get your ex-princely knickers in a twist, Alek," she said with a wink and a quick peck on his cheek. "You've known since... October, aye?"

"October, ay—yes." Lately Alek had caught some of Deryn's rough terms creeping into his speech. Not that he minded, necessarily; he just felt as if her lively language didn't suit him, somehow. "I was a bit of a _Dummkopf_ for a while afterward," he added.

"And when did you... get together?" asked Arty eagerly, leaning forward. "Tell me _everything_."

Alek nodded slightly at Deryn, who leaned forward herself, her hands spreading in one of her characteristic enthusiastic gestures. ''Well," she began, "I, like a daft lassie, fell for this _Dummkopf_ about, oh, a day or two after he came aboard—you remember that story, aye?" Arty nodded wordlessly, and Alek blinked, surprised. Deryn had never told him exactly when she'd begun to fancy him, and he'd assumed it was sometime before Istanbul, but— _So soon after we met? Poor Deryn._ "Then, in Istanbul, Alek and some of his men left the ship."

"Istan—?" started Arty, then interrupted herself. "Oh, right, the revolution. Carry on."

"I—well, instead of returning to the _Leviathan_ after going off on an espionage mission, I went and tracked Alek down in Istanbul. And, aye, the revolution, you know what happened then. Except it was complicated a wee bit by this anarchist lassie, Lilit, who fancied me. She kissed me, in fact." Deryn blushed slightly, as she always did when someone brought Lilit up.

Arty snorted out a laugh. "Oh, dear," she gasped, her eyes twinkling with barely contained mirth. Bovril joined in with a cackle and a, "Daft lassie!" of its own.

A horrible realization sunk its claws into Alek's brain for the first time, and he felt his stomach do a flip. "...Deryn?" It was more of an exclamation than a question, and Deryn turned her head with a grin, her own suppressed laugh sparkling in her eyes.

"Aye?"

"Lilit didn't know you were a girl until _after_ she kissed you... right?" he queried, afraid he already knew the answer.

If anything, Deryn's grin broadened. "Of course she knew before she kissed me! She fancied _me_, not 'Dylan,' you daftie!"

"But that— that would mean—" Alek sputtered, feeling his jaw drop open and his cheeks heat. "It would mean that she—"

Deryn rolled her eyes. "Barking proper Clankers," she muttered, as did Bovril at the exact same time, creating a two-part chorus that Alek would've found funny, if he hadn't been so... _shocked_. "Look, _Dummkopf_, it's fine. I don't hold it against her, and neither should you. It's not as if _I_ fancy her _back_." At "back," her voice broke, and she succumbed to a laughing fit.

Alek swallowed, deciding that his "she'll roast in Hell forever, according to my church" argument probably wouldn't work on Deryn any better than any of his "that's not proper" arguments did. "Well... then. That's... interesting."

The two Darwinist girls made eye contact, and they both started cackling again. Tapping his foot, Alek waited silently for them to recover and for Deryn to resume her story. Eventually, and hiccupping slightly, she managed, "Anyway... over Siberia, Alek found out about me."

"That bum-rag reporter," said Bovril indignantly. "Barking traitor."

"Aye, _you_ were a barking traitor, beastie." Bovril giggled. "Alek got ahold of an article with both 'Deryn' and 'Dylan' in it. And Bovril was too barking perspicacious and helped him."

"A wee bit," conceded the loris. "_Mr._ Sharp."

At this point, Alek felt obliged to explain himself. "I tricked Deryn by saying her real name. And then—well, I was a bit of a _Dummkopf_, and I didn't talk to her for days. By this point, you see, I suspected she... that she loved me."

Arty whistled through her teeth sympathetically, drawn-out and high-pitched. "And you couldn't be with her. The prince and the commoner. A problem you seem to have—" she quirked an eyebrow, looking rather pointedly at Alek's arm around Deryn's waist— "circumnavigated."

"Circumnavigated," agreed Bovril.

Deryn picked up the story where Alek had left off. "By Japan, we were speaking again, his princeliness having gotten over his snooty spell." She gave Alek a playful glare. "And then, over the Pacific in a barking _hurricane_, Alek and I were topside at the insistence of a certain mad boffin, and Alek hit his daft head. He made me promise that we wouldn't keep secrets from each other. So, to honor my promise, and to keep him awake—" she paused for effect, winking at an enraptured Arty— "I kissed him."

"'So it works on sleeping princes, too?'" quoted Bovril in Deryn's voice, despite the fact that it hadn't been topside with them in the storm. Alek gave Deryn a look, and she blushed slightly, mumbling something about "might've taught the beastie a few phrases."

Arty, bizarrely, burst into applause. "Good for you, Deryn," she cheered. "Way to take charge!"

Deryn winked again. "Well, that complicated things a bit. I still didn't know how Alek felt about _me_."

"_I_ didn't know how I felt about you," Alek muttered. It was true—he had been terribly conflicted at the time, and for weeks afterward. The head wound hadn't helped, of course.

"So, then I got into a bit of a tight spot in Mexico—sprained my knee and cut my arm, and I couldn't very well go to sickbay, because then they'd've stripped my uniform off and seen what was underneath, aye?"

Arty nodded, smirking. "In the interest of my... future escapades, how exactly...?" she asked delicately, with a touch of what Alek could only interpret as envy. He felt his ears go red as he realized exactly what Arty was asking.

"Chest!" said Bovril with entirely too much glee. Deryn and Arty laughed along with it.

"A wee bit of tailoring, and a bandage or two. Helps that I haven't got diddies to speak of," said Deryn cheerfully, although her expression was at odds with her tone. "Anyway, Alek helped me out of that tight spot with a clever bit of lying. Didn't stop that bum-rag of a reporter, Eddie Malone, from discovering my secret," she added with a scowl. "Barking eavesdroppers."

Arty whistled again. "A reporter, huh? That's _bad_."

"I'll say," said Alek, deciding it was time he helped out again. "I helped Deryn keep her secret when she was injured, even though we thought it'd be published once we got to New York City. And then... I traded my secret, the one about being the imperial heir, for Deryn's, so Malone wouldn't publish hers. And... I shut down Goliath, in Shoreham, and I... killed Tesla with his own electrikal walking stick." Alek realized, too late, that he might've done best to keep that secret, but Arty was already keeping two of his and Deryn's secrets, so it couldn't hurt to entrust her with one more... right?

Arty gasped, but their story wasn't over yet. "Because he thought that Goliath would set the _Leviathan_ aflame, and it nearly did," Deryn added softly. "He saved me, and the entire ship."

"But mostly you," Alek asserted, squeezing her hand with both of his.

"But mostly me. And then we met again, and we went topside..."

"And I kissed Deryn, and told her I loved her, and threw my scroll from the pope that gave me a claim to the imperial throne into the East River," Alek finished in a giddy rush. Retelling these events for the first time made him just as happy as participating in them had. "And now we're going to work for the Zoological Society of London together."

Arty had the most beatific smile Alek had ever seen on a human being on her face. "That's so," she started, tears pooling in her eyes for some absurd reason, "ad-adorable! _Just_ like a novel!"

"Aye, I reckon it is," grinned Deryn, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on Alek's mouth, pulling away—sadly—almost immediately.

Turning her gaze on Alek, Arty stood and stepped toward the bed where he sat. "And _you_," she snapped, suddenly angry, "_you_ had better stay with Deryn forever, or... or..." She reached out and slapped Alek across the face, hard enough for it to sting considerably. "I'll do _that_!"

And with that, she swept out of the room, tossing a wink over her shoulder at Deryn and locking the door behind her.

A second later, Deryn started laughing breathlessly, presumably at Alek's expression, and, much to his delight, Alek discovered the best way to shut her up was to kiss her. So he did.

* * *

**That ending was a little cracky, I think. Mainly I was just looking for an excuse to have someone slap Alek... I think Arty is PMSing or something. ;) Then again, if Alek ever threatened to leave, thought about leaving, or was not completely and utterly automatically opposed to leaving Deryn, I would slap him, too...**

**And you probably thought this was just a harmless, fluffy, cute chapter, with no action or development in it... mwahahahaha.**

**Well, now Bovril has a fellow in-universe Dalek shipper. I'm sure it's very happy about that. Plus, the eccentricities of Dalek fangirls can now be put on display! :D**

**Gee, I sure hope Arty is trustworthy... *Evil Author smirk* Too perspicacious for her own good, she is. :D**

**By the way, no, I'm not Austrian, so I Googled those Christmas details. They aren't from Wikipedia, though! You should be proud!**

**This chapter, I think, is a good place to reiterate how UTTERLY CLUELESS Alek is. STILL. Rest assured, though, I am yelling at him (mentally, mostly, but sometimes aloud) as I write for his obliviousness. It IS fun (if frustrating) to write someone with his lack of perception...**

***ahem* To bring this extremely ramble-y author's note to an end, I will implore you to keep up the standards set in the previous chapter and REVIEW!**


	8. In Which a Few Things Are Inclement

**A/N: Well. Hello there. I'd like to point out that this update is not ****_technically _****late in any way, shape, or form, even though my life is utterly insane right now and I probably should be neglecting y'all SHAMELESSLY. But thus is my devotion to this fic and you, my lovely, devoted readers/reviewers/followers!**

**Anyway, enough about me and y'all. Let's get to what you're REALLY here for: the chapter! This one is short, sadly, and fluff-less, also sadly, but I hope I have made it up to you with a generous helping of hilarity and some good-ol'-fashioned action, although it is not of the type that includes guns/walkers/murderous Germans/murderous Germans with guns and walkers... :(**

**Also, I have invented a ship that is heretofore unknown... just sayin'. :D**

**Guest Review of the Week (there's just the one. Glad to see you got around to an account, AlkahinNeverdud! I'll reply to your review just as soon as I cease shamelessly neglecting my PMs :3):**

**I: Thank you for reading and for leaving your opinion, and here ya go! :)**

**Special shout-out this week to MissyBailey, who has (for whatever reason) put Colossus in its very first community, Meine Liebe! Über-thanks for that, and y'all should check out the other stories in the community, too, if you're not like yours truly and haven't read every single thing in the fandom; they're quite good, and I think "bonus points for fluff" is something we all want to hear. ;)**

**DISCLAIMER: OBVIOUSLY I am actually Scott Westerfeld in disguise as an insane fanfiction author. OBVIOUSLY. I'm just that awesome. ;P **

* * *

A squick less than sixty hours later, the _Leviathan_ was nearing  
London, the British Isles visible as a dark smear on the horizon. As much as Deryn would've liked to watch the approach and landing from a Huxley, she reckoned that Arty would enjoy it, too, and she felt that she owed the girl a favor. Not that Deryn thought that Arty wouldn't keep her secret, but it was probably best to give her a wee thank-you. She hadn't _asked_ to be burdened with Deryn's secret, after all—she had almost literally stumbled upon it.

And anyway, Deryn could watch from topside. The weather was barking awful today, the wind howling and pregnant clouds threatening, and lower would be warmer, she reckoned.

Arty seemed not to care a squick. She talked excitedly about seeing the city from above the whole way up the ratlines, although Deryn tried to tell her that Wormwood Scrubs—the London airfield, of course—wasn't technically in the city, just the suburbs.

Perhaps Arty was just happy to be able to talk to someone besides Newkirk. Dr. Barlow had continued to ignore her "apprentice," foisting her off on the middies as she worked on some new secret project in her locked cabin. Since Arty had found out about Deryn and Alek, she had gone out of her way to give them as much alone time as possible, insisting that Newkirk take her places—much to the other middy's puzzlement.

The resulting kisses stolen in dark corners of the airship were satisfactory, to say the least, and Deryn reckoned Arty deserved some thanks for that, too.

This was the least she could do.

Once on the spine, however, Deryn and Arty were immediately cornered by Newkirk. The bum-rag was supposed to be up and officially monitoring the approach, but apparently something was more barking important than his duties.

At the sight of Newkirk's nervously bobbing dirty blond head, Arty muttered an, "Oh, God, not _him_ again," under her breath. Deryn gave her a sympathetic nudge. Newkirk could be dead annoying sometimes, but he was worse than usual lately.

As Newkirk drew up in front of them, Arty pasted on a smile that looked surprisingly genuine—a good actress, this lassie was. She'd do well in the film reels Alek was always blethering on about. "Good morning, Mr. Newkirk," she said cheerfully. "Aren't you supposed to be watching the approach in a Huxley?"

Newkirk made an expression that could only be described as a simper, shooting Deryn a suspicious look.

What could he _possibly_ be suspicious of? But, a squick later, Deryn realized that his expression seemed more like _jealousy_. _Oh, no_.

"Please, call me Eugene, Miss Artemis," he said stiffly, the strange expression still on his face. _Eugene?_ He'd never even told _Deryn_ his first name. "And, aye, I was supposed to be up, but I... have something to tell you first."

For just a squick, Arty looked pure dead terrified—she knew what was coming. But she got her expression right back under control and managed, "Oh, um, thank you, Mr… Eugene. What is it that you…?"

Newkirk coughed uncomfortably, giving Deryn another look, awkward this time. "Would you mind… going away a bit, Mr. Sharp? This is sort of… private."

"Aye, no, not at all," Deryn mumbled, trying her best to not crack an enormous grin. From the feel of her cheek muscles, she wasn't entirely succeeding. "I'll just... be over here then." Beating a hasty retreat to the nearest Huxley winch, she half turned away, taking the opportunity to release her grin in the direction of a group of bemused riggers.

But Newkirk hadn't accounted for the wind blowing up the length of the spine, and Deryn could hear every word he and Arty said as if they were standing right next to her.

"Miss Black... Artemis..." Newkirk began. There was a soft shuffle against the membrane, as if Newkirk had sidled a couple of steps closer to Arty. Deryn was sorely tempted to turn around, but Newkirk would probably stop his confession, and this was too barking hilarious to pass up. "We've spent a lot of time together these last few days..."

"Yes?" prompted Arty. Her voice was perfectly cordial, but Deryn had the feeling that she was most likely stifling a laugh.

"Aye... we've gotten to kn-know each other pretty well, I reckon..." Poor daft Newkirk! He sounded pure dead terrified, as if he thought Arty would barking bite his head off. He hadn't been around girls much back home, Deryn reckoned. "And I, I really like you."

"Oh, well, I like you too, Mr. Newkirk..." Arty began, no doubt purposely misinterpreting in a burst of desperation.

"No! Not like that. I think—I think that I... fancy you a bit. And I was hoping..."  
At this point, Newkirk's desperate confession was interrupted with a muffled gasp from Arty, and Deryn could no longer resist the temptation to catch a look for herself.

Whipping round, she caught a glimpse of Arty all but jerking her hand out of Newkirk's nervous and no doubt clammy grip. Newkirk's cheeks were crimson, his mouth hanging open a wee bit. Deryn had to clap a hand across her own mouth to contain the laugh bubbling up inside of her. This was just too barking hilarious!

Arty cleared her throat, clasping her hands behind her back to thwart any more desperate hand-grabbing attempts. Turning slightly to face Deryn, she cast her a wide-eyed look, which Newkirk was too typically barking daft to catch. Deryn made a "carry on" gesture, feeling the muscles in her cheeks aching from her enormous grin. "Um, well," Arty fumbled, swallowing again. "That was unexpected, Mr. Newkirk. And very, um, flattering. Thank you. But I regret to inform you that I don't... share your feelings. I like you as a friend, but I—um." The muscles in her face twitched in what was either a bizarre spasm or a barely controlled expression of disgust. "Dylan!" she called desperately. "Isn't it time for me to go up?"

"Aye, that it is." Deryn strode over, effacing her smirk with an effort and replacing it with a studied deadpan. Newkirk beat a hasty retreat, his clumsy backpedaling threatening to crack Deryn's carefully controlled expression. "Up you go, lassie. You know the drill."

Arty did indeed know the drill, and after a perfunctory check of her straps, Deryn let her rise to a thousand feet. Ireland was to port now, its brilliant green fields looking more gray under today's thick cloud cover.

Suddenly tired, Deryn crouched down and leaned against the cold aluminum of the winch, her mouth opening in a jaw-cracking yawn. She scrubbed at her watering eyes with the back of her fist. These last few weeks, she'd been getting only five or six hours of sleep a night, if she was lucky. Her workload was only going up, and Mr. Rigby had made it dead clear that skylarking on duty was "bloody unacceptable," so she only had her shrinking scraps of free time—and the time that she would normally devote to sleeping—to spend with Alek.

Deryn heard a groan and a thump as someone dropped himself next to her. Hiding a wince, she mumbled, "Hello, Newkirk."

"Hullo, Sharp." Deryn opened her eyes to see Newkirk staring dejectedly down at his boots—they could use a good polish, she noted—and had to swallow yet another laugh, instead trying to rearrange her features in the expression of an indignant and sympathetic friend.

"Barking shame, that." She patted him on the back, tactfully not mentioning that by rights he should be up in a Huxley right now. God knew he'd covered for _her_ when she'd shirked her duties enough times. "Her loss," she added, although it really wasn't, in her objective female opinion—the only thing Newkirk had going for him was his beastie-like loyalty, and that could be barking annoying.

"Aye. I suppose so." Newkirk shifted, wrapping his arms around his knees, looking pure dead shattered—he had really gotten his hopes up, it seemed. "Do you have any idea why she...?"

"None," Deryn said, like a good friend, although she had plenty. Briefly, she wondered if she was being too sympathetic for a boy—should she be teasing Newkirk instead? She shrugged to herself—to blazes with her disguise, right now Newkirk wanted comforting. And she was the only one who could give him any.

Newkirk eyed her. "And you and her...?"

Deryn snorted with unfeigned disbelief. "Art—Miss Black and me? Blisters, no. I've... got a girl back home," she fabricated wildly.

Newkirk gave her a look of respect. "Really? What's her name?"

"Um—Kellie MacPherson," Deryn fabricated wildly. Kellie was, in actuality, their next-door neighbor in Glasgow and the girl her mother and aunties used as an example of "proper female behavior." Consequentially, Deryn despised her and had fond memories of the time she'd given her a black eye, although she supposed Kellie was pretty, if you went for the curvy-with-dark-ringlets type. She was also one of the many girls Jaspert had walked out with, so she reckoned that Kellie would be attractive to males in general. "Dead knockout, she is," she added, with an enthusiasm that she most certainly didn't feel.

Newkirk sighed wistfully. "Brilliant for you, then. Alek mentioned a lassie in Constan—Istanbul... Lillian, was it? You certainly get around, Sharp."

Deryn managed a cheeky grin, helped along by Newkirk's guileless swallowing of her lies. If only he knew! "Aye, that I do. But really, don't be down 'bout, um, Miss Black. She's not your type, believe me." She clapped him on the back again. "I'm sure there are plenty of _proper_ girls back home that'll fall all over your airman's swagger." Mentally she substituted "daft and blind" for "proper."

Newkirk brightened and managed a smile. "Thanks, Sharp. I should probably get back on duty now." He stood, clapping his hands on his knees. "Blisters, but it's gotten windy fast," he added absently.

"It's _always_ barking—" Deryn began, then looked up. A massive ripple of wind and rain was blowing up towards the tail of the airship, which Newkirk, in his typical daft style, had apparently missed. "Arty!" she cried, craning her neck to look up at the girl's Huxley, feeling sick to her stomach. _Deryn_ had survived a storm in a Huxley, but that had been a gentle summer London storm, and she hadn't been barking _two thousand_ feet above the ground.

Deryn sprang for the winch's handle, spinning it desperately, noting dully that the panic flag she had given Arty was flapping from the lassie's hand—and she, like a _Dummkopf_, had been so busy talking to barking _Newkirk_ that she hadn't even noticed. But Deryn's reeling was too late; the icy rain—just above freezing and more slush than anything else—and howling wind hit her a squick later, nearly knocking her off her feet. Barking spiders, this was as bad as the blistering _hurricane_ she and Alek had been in!

She watched helplessly, still turning the winch, as the wind caught the Huxley, pushing against the beastie's hydrogen-filled envelope and spinning it towards the spine. Abruptly she stopped winching it in, horror piercing her panic-fogged brain.

The slush would weigh the Huxley down, forcing it toward the spine and quite possibly smashing it—and Arty—into the steel-hard dorsal plates.

_Stay calm. Stay calm. There's nothing you can do. Arty's a sharp lassie. You've taught her a bit. She'll be all right._ Deryn clenched her fists, ignoring the icy rain that flattened her hair to her head and overflowed into her eyes and down her open flight suit to her shirt below, watching as Arty did what she herself had done—spilled the Huxley's ballast, the glittering waste water swiftly lost in the pounding curtain of falling rain. _Stay calm._

The Huxley, however, continued to sink, its sodden membranes succumbing to the pull of gravity and tugging it ever closer to a quick death. With Deryn's winching, it was now only a few hundred feet off the spine, and she could see Arty's white face as the American peeled off her sopping flight suit and tossed it to the deck. This did nothing to halt her plummet, however, and Deryn watched as Arty's face hardened. Hardly hesitating, she reached for the knot tethering her Huxley to the winch.

"No!" Deryn screamed, but her cry was lost in the wind, and truthfully, this was probably Arty's best option. This way, her death wasn't certain—just likely, Deryn thought bitterly.

_No_. The Huxley, freed of its weighty tether, spun off to starboard, dipping and twirling wildly, Arty's dark outline swinging helplessly beneath it like the inconsequential weight she really was.

Deryn stood, looking after her, heedless of the freezing rain stinging her own numb face. Arty wouldn't last ten minutes without a flight suit in this weather, she thought bitterly, although at least they were nearing London now and over farmland instead of the barking Atlantic. Someone would go after the free-ballooning Huxley... eventually.

In the meantime, there was nothing she could do except get _herself_ out of the weather before she caught her death of cold. "Newkirk!" she called, and turned to see him making a desperate lunge for the edge of the airship. "_Newkirk_!"

Deryn tackled him from behind, pinning him to the spine as he kicked and flailed. Drawing her hand back, she slapped him across the face as hard as she could. "You _Dummkopf_," she snarled over the roar of the storm. "What in bleeding blazes were you thinking?"

She held him for a squick, stroking his soaking wet hair, as he whimpered Arty's name and sobbed. Rising into an odd hunched position, she dragged him—he no longer struggled but was a limp, pathetic weight—across the spine, fighting against the wind's grip on the both of them. The yards-long journey seemed miles, fraught with danger, but finally she pulled him into the safety and warmth of the nearest hatch into the gut.

"Artemis," he moaned one last time, and Deryn allowed herself a single tear as she bent over Newkirk, offering what comfort she could.

* * *

**I feel legitimately sorry for Newkirk. I mean, first his crush totally rejected him (nicely, though; he should reassure himself with the fact that she had a right to be much, much meaner than that and wasn't, because she's a nicer person than I am), and then she got engulfed by a FREEZING RAINSTORM (I swear to God, those things are worse than blizzards) and blown off. And I'M the one who did this to him, technically. Mwahahahaha.**

**Awkward Newkirk is awkward, though X) Is Eugemis not a beautiful and glorious thing? (Yes, I named it ;D And I have discovered, after much experimentation, that neither Newkirk nor Eugene combines well with ANYTHING. At all. As compared to Lilit, say, which goes with absolutely everything.) Poor Newkirk... nobody likes him... TT_TT **

**I can TOTALLY see Deryn being one of those people that give out awesome relationship advice XD ...Which is kind of weird, when you think about it, but whatever.**

**Also, I think I may have taken a creative liberty or twenty with geography and/or the ****_Leviathan_****'s speed in this particular chapter. I mean, I didn't actually CHECK anything (which is quite out of character; normally I'm rather obsessive about checking, rechecking, and writing a mathematical problem about such things), so I may have possibly kind of maybe sort of speeded things up. A lot. But rest assured, when you're going to London from the Atlantic Ocean, Ireland is to port! :D At least I remember THAT much from World Geography.**

**To conclude what has shaped up to be another unnecessarily long A/N, I'd like to thank y'all for your awesome efforts as my readers. I've seven reviews again on last chapter (I shall count AlkahinNeverdud's review, as that's its INTENT), and I want you to know I appreciate your time spent on what is essentially a very long fangirl daydream that had the good fortune to be typed out. X) Even you silent readers (I know you're out there; Traffic Stats practically BEGS you to become a stalker) have given me some of your precious time, and for that I am indebted. Of course, favoriting/following/reviewing is best of all... Let's stick to the fantabulous standard set by last chapter and REVIEW! :D**


	9. In Which There Is an Obituary, of Sorts

**A/N: _Salvete_****! (Because Latin is the only language besides English that I could be considered competent in, and I am running out of original greetings. :P) Chapter 9 hath arrived—and I know y'all have been fretting incessantly about Arty's fate. ;) (She thanks you for your consideration. And have you read the chapter title? :D) **

**I think I had an inordinate amount of fun writing this, although it _did _make me rather sad. Also falling into the category of inordinateness (which is, I must say, an exceedingly awkward-sounding word, but that's the English language for you) is the amount of (completely unjustified) pride I have in some of this while I was writing it, especially that little short bit bracketed between line breaks down there. :D And then I went back and was like, "This is pretentiously ostentatious, unnecessarily metaphysical claptrap. *headdesk*"**

**...Although this is no doubt of stunningly little interest to you, so let's move on, shall we? This chapter is long, you'll no doubt be happy to hear, if rather lacking in plot developments... :P**

**Aaaaaand of course the guest reviews! :D Two of them, in fact, but I shall ignore you and your laziness, Stronger-Than-Fear. ;) I'll get around to PMing you... eventually. I'm so lazy... urgh.**

**China aru: THERE YOU ARE! HAH! YOU _ARE_ READING! Y'all, meet my friend China, who shall be joining us later on in a Certain Capacity and who has an ACTUAL account but is APPARENTLY too lazy/paranoid to REVIEW from it and keep my A/Ns SHORT. :P (Let me also assure you that the usage of "aru" EIGHT TIMES in three paragraphs was also intentional, for reasons best known to Hetalia fans.) *bows* I appreciate your appreciation of the awesomeness of this story, my dear, dear reviewers, this fandom, and... general awesomeness? XD Thanks anyway, though. And for the definitely-superbly-awesome-and-effective promotion, too, of course. XP It's the thought that counts. And, well, it's a bit redundant now, but... yeah. VERY soon. XD**

**DISCLAIMER: I am not Scott Westerfeld and therefore do not own any of this. Well, except Arty, and she's inferior to the canon characters anyway. Plus, that's only if I didn't kill her off! :D**

* * *

The _Leviathan_ reached Wormwood Scrubs an hour late, and, thanks to the pounding rain, the landing took twice as long as normal, the drenched ground men taking special care with the airship's lashings.

Deryn had, of course, reported the Huxley accident via message lizard to the bridge as soon as possible, although she hadn't got anything back besides a simple acknowledgement.

She dropped off Newkirk at sick bay, since he wouldn't stop shivering and crying and didn't respond to even his name. After she briefly explained what had happened, Dr. Busk sighed and mumbled something about shock and "time's the only thing for it." Last Deryn saw of Newkirk—Eugene, now, she reckoned, though that seemed barking odd—he was sitting on the edge of a cot, staring into a cup of tea, while Dr. Busk attempted to keep alive a decidedly one-sided conversation.

Heading into the corridor, Deryn leaned against one of the walls, staring off into the glowworm-lit distance, and sighed. Thank God she'd never had to stay in there herself. Just being in the room, seeing the equipment and the beds often filled with a half-stripped man or two, made her pure dead terrified.

And now she never would.

Pushing herself off the wall, she headed purposefully down the corridor, her eyes taking everything in as they had when she had first come aboard this ship—this marvel. The gently squirming glowworms in the walls, the carpet, even the outlines of the fabricated balsa doors—they were all as familiar to her as her own rough hands or Alek's green eyes.

Except she wasn't about to leave either of those things behind her in a few short hours.

Deryn had revisited a lot of the ship over the past few nights—the rookery where she'd very nearly told Alek her secret. The engine pods where he'd made good the ship's escape and—almost—dodged a bullet. The fléchette bat coves where Deryn had almost fallen to her death. The empty storerooms belowdecks where she'd uncovered a film canister in a barrel of sugar. The posh corridors of the gondola where she'd walked Tazza countless times. The lizard room where she'd caught Alek snooping. The navigator's bubble where she'd told him the story of her da's death. The aft wheelhouse where they'd paused in the storm. The machine room where they'd spent blistering hot hours stewing over the loris eggs. The ratlines where she'd struggled and shone. She'd even taken Alek topside and stolen one last kiss under the star-strewn sky.

That left one place—the place Deryn had always felt, if not freed by the sky, then awed by the power of the massive beast that lifted her there.

The gut.

* * *

Right now, Deryn didn't know where Alek and Bovril were, and she didn't care. She wanted to be alone for this.

She sat cross-legged on the aluminum walkway near the bee hives, where Dr. Barlow had missed her secret by a squick, and cried silently for the first and last time in the warm darkness at the living heart of the beastie. Once her wellspring of tears had dried, she blew a single shivery note on her command whistle.

The glowworms began along the ridges and bumps of the beastie's spine, slowly, ever so slowly, creeping their living green light along the lofting arches of the ribs and the soft curves of the hydrogen sacs, gleaming along the cross-ties leading up to the starboard engine pod hatch, pooling gentle light down into the digestive tract itself.

Deryn sat in silence, her face tilting up, her heart filling with the sort of awe she reckoned most people only ever felt in the kirk. She flattened her palms against the walkway and took a deep breath, seeing _Leviathan_, feeling _Leviathan_, smelling _Leviathan_, breathing _Leviathan_—she even swore she could hear the steady, powerful th-thump, th-thump of its great heart.

Silently, reverentially, she rose to her feet and whispered a last, tiny goodbye into the echoing depths of where she felt sure the beastie would hear her best.

* * *

When Deryn returned to her cabin for the last time, face carefully arranged like stone and all signs of tears impatiently scrubbed away, she found a message lizard waiting for her.

"Mr. Sharp?" it squawked in the captain's voice. Deryn nodded and saluted automatically, although of course gesturing to message lizards was pure dead useless.

"Please pack your kit and come to the bridge in full-dress as soon as possible," continued the lizard. "Your, ah, send-off will be in fifteen minutes. Leave your bag on your bed—someone will take it down for you."

The lizard stopped, cocking its head. Deryn cleared her throat and said, soft and low and careful, "Thank you, sir. I'll be up directly. End message."

The lizard scurried off into its brass pipe, and Deryn turned to her tiny closet with a sigh. First thing was to get out of these sodden clothes—she wanted everyone's last impression of Middy Sharp to be of a fresh-faced young boy, neat and eager to do his duty by his country.

She stripped completely, peeling off even her dripping skivvies, and redressed herself in her dress uniform, giving her shiny boots a halfhearted scrub with a handkerchief and adjusting her silk bow tie. The cotton of the Japanese shirt was just as soft as she remembered, and she stood for a moment with her arms wrapped around herself, lost in memories of an autumn day spent on the busy streets of Tokyo with a serious and uncomfortable boy, before giving herself a wee shake and pinning her Air Gallantry Cross over her heart.

Deryn, after a moment's consideration, hung her wet flight suit in the closet, first pulling out her goggles, gloves, and scarf from its pockets. The flight suit was Air Service issue, after all, whereas she had bought her spare uniforms herself in Paris. She wrapped her skivvies—they'd been carefully shoved in the back of a drawer—in her wet uniform and stuffed it to the bottom of her kit bag, along with her two pairs of boots. On top of this went her only civilian clothes, the shirt and pants she'd been wearing when she'd inadvertently boarded the _Leviathan_ and the bright silk Ottoman clothes she'd worn the night of the revolution, and finally her spare uniforms—a jacket, three shirts, three pairs of trousers, a spare tie, and a pair of suspenders.

The bag closed with room to spare, and Deryn filled its side pockets with a few small middy items—her boot polish, rigging knife, watch, command whistle, worn copy of the _Manual of Aeronautics_, and, after weighing it in her hand for a squick, her unused razor and brown lump of Air Service soap. Last went her scanty yet precious personal items—her two sketchpads, one purchased in Paris and one in Istanbul, her handful of pencils, her career-saving sewing kit, and the slightly worn twin to the medal gleaming on her chest.

Peering into the tiny, tarnished, and water-spotted mirror hanging above her desk for the final time, Deryn gelled and combed back her hair as neatly as she could. Giving the mirror a final, unceremonial swipe with the edge of her posh sleeve, she tossed her comb and gel into the bag and stood hefting it for a squick.

It was awful light for something that held the physical necessities of her laugher, trials, and tears for the past six barking months.

Quickly and efficiently she stripped her sheets and folded them neatly on the floor. She made the blankets how she'd been taught—tight enough to bounce a shilling off of and with right-angle corners—and stood for a beat looking at the bed that had held her countless times as she'd shivered and tried not to cry, scairt and shaken after another barking nightmare.

Then she turned, dropping her bag dead center on the bed and closing the door firmly behind her without a second glance.

She'd never been one for sentimentality, after all.

Turning forward again, Deryn nearly ran headlong into Alek, who'd been lurking in the hallway, instead managing to trip over one or the other of their feet and nearly knock him over. He caught her by the shoulders and steadied her.

"Barking spiders, Alek, you shouldn't sodding skulk like that! I didn't see you there!" she yelped, wincing as she heard her voice squeak. What _was_ it about Alek that always made her lose control?

"Barking spiders!" echoed Bovril's wee voice from inside Alek's shirt. The beastie poked its head out of his collar, blinking its large eyes.

Alek's hands lingered a wee bit too long on her shoulders. "You're heavier than you look," he said unnecessarily, releasing her reluctantly, no doubt mindful of the publicity of the hallway.

Deryn blinked. "Thank... you?" she said uncertainly, smiling against her will.

Alek cleared his throat. "Anyway."

"Anyway?" she prompted.

"I came to, ah, see you off," he said, shrugging and straightening the fabric of his tunic, much to Bovril's chagrin—he was wearing Volger's repurposed blue and red Hapsburg Cavalry uniform, the one he'd had modified in Tokyo.

Deryn raised an eyebrow at it. "In full poshness, I see."

Alek cleared his throat. "Well, it _is_ a formal ceremony, of sorts. And it would be odd if I showed up in my mechanic's clothes or one of my dinner jackets." Smiling, he clapped her on the shoulder, then dropped his hand, unobtrusively brushing her fingertips against his own. "You look better than I, anyway."

She gave him a warning look—just because the hallway was empty now didn't mean it would stay that way, as she'd learned from experience—but couldn't suppress a crooked smile. "Aye, I know," she said cheerfully, drawing on her boy's swagger even now.

"Dead gorgeous," Bovril opined, crawling to Alek's shoulder and waving a wee arm.

"We should really get to the bridge," offered Alek. "We're nearly late _already_."

Deryn grinned. "We've a few minutes—" she began, her earlier caution thrown to the winds.

"_No_," he said firmly, coloring a bit.

Her smile widened—she was finding that she quite enjoyed being a bad influence, if only because Alek's reactions were so barking hilarious. "After you, then," she said courteously, dropping into an extravagant bow and sweeping her braid-adorned arm in front of her.

Alek snorted but started walking. "Aren't we past all that? I _am_ a simple commoner now."

She followed, not even having to lengthen her stride to overtake him. "No, your ex-princeliness. Not on your barking life. How am I supposed to pass up that much brilliant stuff to tease you about?"

He gave her a playful sideways look. "I don't suppose you could exercise _any_ restraint at _any_ time?"

"No," Bovril said definitively, snickering, and that was that.

Deryn smiled, redoubling her pace. Alek kept up doggedly—he'd never been quite as fast as she was, but you had to give him credit for trying, Deryn reckoned.

* * *

Deryn had, originally, wondered why the captain was holding her ceremony on the bridge instead of in the navigation room, or maybe in the cargo bay where they'd given Alek his medal, if he wanted to be barking formal about it.

Now, however, she had more of a notion. What she reckoned to be the entire company of the ship's officers, plus the bosun, the master rigger, and the master coxswain, who weren't commissioned, and all the boffins lined the curving walls of the bridge, the massive, usually sun-filled windows behind them spattered and streaked with teardrops of rain.

As Deryn stood, gaping just a wee bit at the turnout, the lady boffin caught her by the arm and whispered quickly, "I thought you'd like to know—they've picked up Miss Black. She's waiting for us down at the hotel—hypothermia, poor dear—"

The captain cleared his throat, turning from the wheel, a document clutched in his gloved hand. "Midshipman Sharp," he said formally.

Deryn crossed to stand in front of him, giving the lady boffin a tiny nod, then braced to attention and gave her best salute. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alek take his place at the end of the line of men, Bovril sitting tall on his shoulder. "Captain Hobbes, sir," she said, but her mind was on what Dr. Barlow had just told her.

Hypothermia could be _bad_, if the case was serious enough. _Very_ bad. People _died_ from exposure, in fact. But Arty hadn't been in the air all that long, from the sound of it. And it wasn't cold enough for her to have been frostbitten, hopefully. Besides, if she weren't all right, they would've taken her to the hospital instead of to the hotel Dr. Barlow had mentioned. She was a tough lassie. She'd be fine.

With difficulty—she couldn't help but blame herself for the accident, even if it was just that, accidental—Deryn put Arty out of her mind and focused on the situation at hand.

"Mr. Sharp," the captain was saying stiffly, "you recently submitted a letter containing your resignation, correct?"

Deryn nodded, although she hadn't, technically—Dr. Barlow had handled that end of things. Apparently, officers—including midshipmen—were allowed to submit a resignation and receive an honorable discharge, so long as the Admiralty approved it. And since Dr. Barlow evidently had the Admiralty in the palm of her hand—Deryn half reckoned they were just dead frightened of her—Deryn's resignation had been entirely handled by her. Without any issues, apparently.

The captain held out the paper he was clutching with a flourish. "I am proud to inform you that the Admiralty has accepted your resignation. They also wish for me to confer that they are sorry to lose such a 'distinguished young midshipman'—in the words of Admiral Churchill himself—and wish you success in your, ah, new employment."

Deryn took the paper from him, glancing at it once—she could do without the barking extra reminder of her leaving the Air Service, thank you very much. It did indeed have 'Honourable Discharge' emblazoned across the top. "Thank you, sir," she said, keeping a straight face despite the compliment. Someone up there was reinforcing the earlier statement they had made with the medal—that she was barking good at her job.

Deryn braced to attention yet again as the captain reached out and slowly, ceremoniously, unpinned the middy's pips on the lapels of her jacket. His light eyes were guileless as he did so, completely free of any doubt about Deryn even at this close range, and she marvelled again at how she'd tricked the entire Service—her officers, the Admiralty, even Mr. Rigby and barking Newkirk. _They_ weren't doing their job very well, and she wondered briefly if some other patriotic lassies had crept in as well.

It hardly mattered, now—she was permanently out of reach of military authority—but she was suddenly fervently glad that her secret had remained one and silently wished luck to any other girls who might want to pull this particular trick.

"Mr. Sharp," Captain Hobbes said loudly, dropping her pins into her upheld, gloved palm, "you are now officially no longer a midshipman in His Majesty's Air Service and are henceforth under civilian authority and subject to civilian law." The assembled officers made a noise that was not quite a cheer or a groan but managed to express congratulations and sadness at the same time. The captain lowered his voice and put a fatherly hand on Deryn's shoulder. She very nearly stiffened in surprise, instead convulsively curling her hand around the pins. "And, Mr. Sharp, I'd like you to know that I endorse Admiral Churchill's statement wholeheartedly. From my own observations and the reports of the crew, I can honestly say that you have a genuine skill and self-possession rarely found in boys your age. You would have made an excellent officer. I am sorry to see you go."

Deryn snapped her crispest salute but couldn't stop an enormous grin from creeping onto her face. Again, the amount of responsibility the captain had given her had indicated his opinion of her, but it was barking nice to be complimented directly like this. And if only he knew exactly who he was complimenting! "Thank you, sir," she said again, then impulsively added, "I'm sorry to go too. I'll miss the _Leviathan_."

The captain smiled again, giving her one last clap on the shoulder. "I'm sure you will, lad. And it was a pleasure having you aboard. If you'll excuse me, I must say good-bye to Dr. Barlow and Prin—Mr. Hohenberg. I'm sure you'd like to give your regards to the crew as well."

"Aye, sir," she said, but he was already gone.

Deryn barely had a chance to look around and wonder who, exactly, she was supposed to be presenting with her "regards" before the head boffin came up from behind her and shook her hand.

"Hello, Mr. Sharp," Dr. Busk said, smiling. "I hear that you're going to work with Dr. Barlow at the London Zoological Society?"

"Aye, sir," she said, giving him a speculative look. She hadn't gotten the impression that Dr. Barlow talked with him much—more than she talked to the captain, since she was technically his colleague, but still—and she only would have told him that if she'd thought it would be useful to her later. The question was whether or not it would be useful to _Deryn_.

"Excellent institution," said Dr. Busk, beginning to grin. "Some really excellent fabrications, many of which are made by the doctor herself. Mr. Hohenberg's loris is an excellent example—clever little thing, you know, although I don't see much use in it, personally."

"Aye, sir, me neither," she said, although that was a wee bit of a lie.

The boffin laughed. "Anyway, I hope you'll perhaps become a fabricator yourself, lad. I still remember how interested you were in my lectures—not at all like that Mr. Newkirk," he added in disgust. "It's a wide-open field, indeed, and you can make quite a difference."

"I'd like that, being a fabricator," Deryn said, although she wasn't sure. She reckoned that her job for the Society would be more spying and less science, at least for the meantime. But Dr. Busk didn't need to know that.

The head boffin smiled again. "Perhaps I'll see you again, then," he said. "All of us fabricators know each other very well—collaboration and such."

"Aye, sir," Deryn said, trying to fade back into the crowd as unobtrusively as possible. "Thank you. Good-bye."

"And, Mr. Sharp," Dr. Busk called—in lieu of a good-bye—as she retreated, "don't forget that knee of yours! Don't put too much stress on it, especially in damp weather, and use a cane if it starts aching again! I've told Dr. Barlow to keep an eye on you!"

Deryn pretended not to hear him over the quiet chatter of the officer-filled bridge, not bothering to restrain herself from rolling her eyes—bloody doctors, always so fussy and timid. Soldiers knew better. Sometimes, as her da would say, you just had to shake it off and get back up on the horse.

Not that Deryn _had_ a barking horse, or was much of a soldier anymore. She clenched her teeth against the unwelcome reminder and waved to Mr. Rigby, who she could half see through the crowd. He waved back and began making his way towards her. He looked uncomfortable and out-of-place in his fancy-boots dress uniform, she noted, obviously sorely missing his usual flight suit—that thing was like an extension of his body, he wore it so much, Deryn reckoned.

"Hullo, Sharp," he said, following the captain's example and clapping her on the shoulder. Deryn wondered, briefly, what it was with middle-aged men and shoulder-slapping as a good-bye. She herself gave Newkirk and Alek a whap or two occasionally—Alek more so than Newkirk, as it was a perfectly legitimate excuse to touch him—but this was getting barking creepy, just a bit.

"Hello, sir," she said, then cleared her throat, as it had come out dangerously girly. "Fancy seeing you here."

The bosun smiled. "The captain invited me specially," he said proudly, puffing out his chest a wee bit. "He knows that I've taken... an eye to you, as it were, and that I'd like to see you off proper."

"Sir?" An _eye_? What in blazes was _that_ supposed to mean?

Mr. Rigby lowered his voice confidentially. "I wouldn't normally say this, Sharp, but you've got air sense good and proper, such as I've never seen in a lad your age. And I still haven't forgotten your saving my life over the bloody Alps. I'll be dead sorry to see you go." Unlike when the captain had said it, his sorrow actually sounded sincere—not flat and pale as the paper it was read off of, but colored with real regret.

"Thank—thank you, sir." Was she barking tearing up? Blisters, but she _hated_ goodbyes—always had. Everyone always got all mushy, as did she, no matter how hard she tried to avoid it—just look at the bosun, complimenting her air sense and bloody _thanking_ her when he'd normally be chewing her out for being a "useless, lazy, skylarking sod."

Mr. Rigby sighed. "Now that you're leaving, I'll have to manage with sodding Newkirk. Ach, well, at least we'll be picking up new middies in London, though they'll be as wet behind the ears as the barking ocean—literally," he added, looking behind Deryn to the soaked airfield beyond the bridge windows. "Where was it you said you were going to work, lad?"

"For the lady boffin—with the London Zoological Society and the beasties," Deryn replied, compulsively straightening her bow tie as she thought of Dr. Barlow—the boffin always insisted she look "smart," and she shuddered to think what, exactly, she'd make her do if she managed to stuff her in a dress somehow. A "smart" dress uniform was barking uncomfortable enough already.

The bosun raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know you liked her _that_ much," he said slowly, looking Deryn up and down. She stiffened uncomfortably. "In fact, I thought you barking _hated_ her."

"Well, sir, it's a chance to work with the beasties," Deryn blethered, aware that her explanation made absolutely no sense whatsoever, and paused, pondering how to phrase this next bit. She couldn't bloody well say "because of Alek," now could she? "And... personal reasons, as well." There. Nice and vague, and private-sounding enough that Mr. Rigby wouldn't dare pry. "But, no, I'm not that fond of Dr. Barlow," she added, dropping her voice in automatic paranoia. Dr. Barlow's loris had developed a nasty habit of lurking behind or under things and then repeating incriminating squicks of conversation back to its mistress—well, in its defense, Bovril wasn't much better, Deryn mentally amended. And you never quite knew at what time Dr. Barlow herself would appear silently behind you.

The bosun laughed silently. "Well-phrased, lad," he said softly, and then, even lower, "Is there a way that we could... keep in touch, Sharp? I'd like—well, like I said, I'd like to keep an eye on you." He looked down and shuffled his feet.

"Well, sir," Deryn said slowly, pondering how to go about this as cautiously as possible, "my br-cousin, Jaspert Sharp, is still in the Service. He's a coxswain on the _Minotaur_, in fact. You could look him up and ask him about me—he'd probably know best where I was at any given time."

"Thank you, Sharp—Dylan," he said sincerely, shaking Deryn's hand vigorously. She tried to squeeze back as firmly as possible. "I'll do that. Meantime, take care."

"Take care, sir," she said, so soft she could barely hear herself, and the bosun was swept away by the crowd almost instantly.

Into the breach swept the lady boffin, her loris perched haughtily on her shoulder and Alek trailing behind like a decorative dog being dragged by the leash through a posh walk in Regent's Park, Bovril clinging to his jacket front.

Dr. Barlow sniffed. "Well, Mr. Sharp, it's high time we were leaving," she said, her voice slightly edged with something akin to sympathy.

Deryn scowled—she didn't want anyone's barking pity!—and Alek put a lightning-fast restraining hand on her arm. She flashed him a smile, quickly brushing the place where his hand had been with her own—she swore she could feel the electricity of his touch, even through her stiff, posh dress jacket.

"We'll just pick up the luggage, and then we'll be off," continued Dr. Barlow, watching them with amusement. Deryn ignored her. "They _are_ expecting us at the hotel quite soon."

Deryn turned on her heel, giving the bridge one last lingering look—it helped the ache in her chest that her primary memories of this room were of bombing _Wasserwanderern_ and listening to Dr. Barlow discourse on champagne bubbles—and fell into step with Alek as they followed the lady boffin and her loris out for the final time.

* * *

**PSYCH! Not an obituary for Arty! An obituary (of sorts) for the poor _Leviathan_! :D**

**Well, you know, not REALLY an obituary. (More of a good-bye tribute, actually.) It just felt that way when I was writing it, so I decided to name this chapter that and give y'all a good scare. ;)**

**Good-byes are sad :( I hope I did everybody justice, though, our favorite war whale included ;)**

**And yes, I managed to squish a little bit of fluff in there for y'all. AREN'T YOU PROUD OF ME? ;D I swear to God, my subconscious has this compulsive urge to stuff fluff into EVERY SINGLE CHAPTER, and it is succeeding, terrifyingly so. XD**

**I spent at LEAST an hour with a pen and a piece of paper, trying to figure out what, exactly, Deryn might own. She ditched London and Istanbul rather suddenly, so obviously not a whole lot, but I let the specifics drive me crazy for a while. :D I'm just obsessive like that. And now I know! My life has been vastly improved.**

**Just so you know, never having been discharged from the British Air Service, I therefore know nothing about how such a ceremony might be conducted and therefore made it all up. It IS true that, in the Royal Navy, officers are allowed to resign their commission, if first approved by the Admiralty Board and if it occurs under extenuating circumstances. I have no idea about the RAF, but the _Leviathan_ Air Service seems to be more closely based on the Royal Navy in structure, with the Admiralty serving as an example of this, so I decided just to go with it. :D (For those of you who have not spent hours reading about the British Armed Forces/founding of various nations' air forces out of obsessive curiosity, there was indeed no such thing as the British Air Service in WWI. There was the Royal Flying Corps, the airborne branch of the British Army, founded in 1912 and consisting, at the beginning of the war, of a pathetic five squadrons, four of aeroplanes and one of balloons, used solely for observational purposes. [Darwinism, it would seem, has done great and glorious things for the progression of aerial warfare.] And then there was the Royal Naval Air Service, which was [surprise] the flying branch of the Royal Navy. It was much more boss, did awesomer stuff, was larger, and actually had airships. :D This appears to be what the "Air Service" is based off of. Actually, it was the "Naval Wing" of the RFC from 1914 to 1915, when it split off and became a separate entity, only to refuse with the RFC in 1918 to become the RAF we know today. [Fun fact: The RAF is the oldest independent air force in the world. Well done, British government! Way to be progressive!])**

**ANYWAY, yeah, that pretty much concludes this chapter's epic A/N. :D Last chapter earned me a WONDERFUL, WONDERFUL, _WONDERFUL _ten reviews! (One of them was in a PM, in case you were doubting my addition skills, such as they are. ;) ) TEN! There's nowhere to go but up! So I shall wrap up with my never-ending refrain of REVIEW!_  
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	10. In Which There Is Opulence

**A/N: Hai! I ****_know _****this is a day late, but y'all should count yourselves lucky that it's this close to on schedule. ;) I discovered Fullmetal Alchemist (and if you don't know what ****_that _****is, go Google it at once! It's got steampunk! Germans! [Kind of.] WWI era things! [Also kind of.] Mechanical legs! [Though not of the walker type.] Also, general awesomeness!) several days ago, and since I ****_thought _****I had nothing better to do, I ended up going on a binge. And quite possibly setting the record for number of manga chapters read consecutively; 108 fifty-ish-page chapters in two days is probably bordering on unhealthy. But what the heck. Anyway, long (looooooong) story short, I'm slightly delirious right now from withdrawal (but thus is the beauty of fanfiction!), and my head is not entirely in the ****_Leviathan_**** universe. *loopy grin* So! This is as good as you're gonna get. **

**That rant (which approximately zero of you cared about, most likely) over, this chapter is a beauteous thing of much length and few plot developments. :P But hey, stuff happens, and there's descriptions, and of course the obligatory fluff. Here's hoping you'll stick with it.**

**Guest reviews! ****_Thank _****you, China, for making this too long again. :P**

**China aru: No, it isn't dead. It was a FIGURATIVE obituary, you see. It also served the purpose of perhaps causing people to think someone ****_else _****had died. :D **

**The point, China, is that the canon does not feature ****_enough _****fluff. Thus is the chronic problem of all Dalek shippers, and since you are likely the only person reading this thing who is NOT a Dalek shipper (fluff-o-phobe :P), you are the only person who would find an issue with this. By the Law of Prussia, I render your protest invalid. :D Fluff is good! Fluff is ****_fabulous_****! THERE CAN NEVER BE ENOUGH FLUFF! (Well, there ****_can_****, but that's not the issue here.) Besides, as you well know—the plot and the adventure are a'comin'. ;)**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Except for Arty. But WAIT—it's illegal to own people in my corner of the world, so I suppose I don't really own HER, either. :D**

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Count Volger was lurking by the luggage, his mustache twitching suspiciously at the groundmen scurrying past, their heads down and caps pulled low. The Austrian, however, hadn't bothered to so much as turn up his collar, his supreme disdain for everything from Britain's weather to the bustle of the landing field broadcast from him like Morse code from a wireless.

Consequentially, his mustache was looking positively sodden despite the twitching, and Alek felt a surge of superior pleasure seeing him so unkempt.

He'd half hoped that Volger hadn't meant what he'd said about following Alek to Russia—he'd deliberately avoided discussing leaving, reasoning a little irrationally that if he didn't talk about it, Volger might somehow forget—but the man had all the tenacity of the bulldogs one of Alek's half-British aunts—or cousins, he wasn't quite sure—had devoted her entire life to breeding.

Volger had also somehow brought along his trunk—presumably he'd bribed or intimidated some crew member into carrying it here, as he mostly likely wouldn't stoop to carrying it himself. Alek eyed it with some trepidation—he'd never figured out what, exactly, Volger had snuck through Austria in the Stormwalker and ferried onto the _Leviathan_, and Volger certainly wasn't telling. Presumably he had some more dubiously usefully family heirlooms obsessively packed in that trunk, ready to be whipped out in a time of need.

"Aleksandar!" he called as soon as he caught sight of Alek through the still-pounding rain. "Aleksandar, I had to ask one of the crew for _directions_ here. In the future, please do inform me of the details of your madcap schemes beforehand." He spoke in German, an utterly useless gesture, as both Dr. Barlow and Deryn could understand him just fine. Perhaps he was simply trying to make things a little bit harder for Deryn—he knew she had more difficulty with German than English, however impressive she was for someone who hadn't even heard the language before four months ago.

"This is hardly '_madcap_,'" said Alek stiffly in English. "Or a scheme. Don't be petty, Count."

"Surely, _Your Serene Highness_," Volger all but snarled, putting a nasty twist on the title and turning to Dr. Barlow. "Are we ready to go, Doctor?" He cast a meaningful and slightly apprehensive glance towards the airfield's gate.

"Hardly," Dr. Barlow said, tilting the umbrella she'd procured from somewhere down a bit. "Most of my luggage hasn't arrived yet, I'm afraid. Nor has Mr. Sharp's."

Volger cast a cold look at Deryn. She gave him a champion glare right back and took a step closer to Alek. She was capless and umbrella-less, her blond hair pasted to the angles of her face and her dress jacket spotted with wet, and Alek was suddenly reminded very strongly indeed of their time spent topside in the hurricane.

The result of that particular adventure, sadly, would hardly go over well on a public airfield—or with Volger—so Alek settled for taking off his own hat and pressing it onto Deryn's head. He had to reach up quite a bit to do so, he noticed glumly.

She offered him a soft, surprised laugh and a half grateful, half exasperated smile, brushing the hat's brim lightly with her fingertips. "Aye," she said to Volger, her smile disappearing as if wiped off. "Wouldn't want to forget the barking luggage, now would we?" She squinted through the rain, pushing her hat up her forehead. "In fact, here's the poor bum-rag now—oi! It's Newkirk!"

Alek wondered irrelevantly why she sounded so surprised—Newkirk was, after all, the common victim of various other menial tasks aboard the airship, as she herself was—but Bovril stirred from where it had been huddled in his coat and muttered, "Arty. Poor girl."

Alek frowned—it was right, of course, in mentioning Arty. Shouldn't she be here by now? "Deryn," he asked quietly, although it was hardly necessary, as the rain pattering on the gangway half covering them was quite loud, "where's Arty?"

She was watching Newkirk as he struggled to drag Dr. Barlow's enormous trunk, keep what looked like her kit bag over his shoulder, and prevent Tazza from pulling him over, a frown etched between her pale eyebrows. "What is Dr. Busk bloody _thinking_, letting him out his own already?" she said, angrily and presumably to herself, then answered distractedly, "She's at the hotel already—had a bit of a Huxley accident. Newkirk and I were wrapped up in it. I'll tell you later."

Newkirk looked, as Deryn would say, dead shattered, trudging with his head down. He looked up and attempted a smile when he saw Alek and Deryn, but he was pale and positively sickly-looking. Deryn rushed over to him immediately, pulling him around by the arm and causing him to drop Dr. Barlow's trunk. Alek, stepping in to lend a hand, nearly got his foot in the trunk's way, instead hastily jumping back and attempting to catch one end of it.  
It practically tore his arm out of its socket, but he still managed to catch Deryn's aggrieved tone as she snatched her bag and Tazza away from Newkirk, saying, "You shouldn't bloody be out here! What _Dummkopf_'s making you work?"

Alek wrenched the trunk partially off the ground, getting his other hand under it, and began to laboriously drag it towards the other luggage. He was listening hard, however, and heard Newkirk mumble, "The captain. But I'm fine now, honest."

Deryn's searching glance was practically audible. "If you say so," she said, obviously not convinced, then lowered her voice. Alek only caught a few snippets of what she said next—"Arty" and "barking _fine_, Newkirk" prominent among them.

Alek gave up on the trunk most of the way to the pile—Lord only knew what peculiar boffin supplies Dr. Barlow had in there, as it was nearly as heavy as Alek himself was—and turned in time to see Deryn seize Newkirk's hand and shake it, saying in quite a normal voice, as if this wasn't quite possibly the last time she'd see him, "See you 'round, Newkirk... Eugene."

Newkirk swallowed and managed, "See you 'round, Sharp... Dylan." He half turned and appeared to notice Alek for the first time, taking a few steps towards him. "And you, too, Aleksandar."

Alek took his hand hesitantly. It was limp and clammy, especially compared to Deryn's usual assertive handshake. "It was nice to, ah, know you, Mr. Newkirk," he said, and left it at that. If Deryn, who was closer to Newkirk than he ever would be, could say good-bye in a single sentence, then he would probably do best to match her brevity.

"See you 'round," added the loris, so softly that only Alek could hear it, as Newkirk paused one last time to wave despondently at the top of the gangway and then disappeared into the bowels of the ship.

Dr. Barlow turned from her quiet conversation with Volger and smiled. "Is Mr. Newkirk _finally_ gone? Good, now we can depart." She snapped her gloved fingers, and Deryn handed her Tazza's leash as eagerly as if it was a hot potato.  
"Leave the luggage," the lady boffin instructed her general vicinity, twirling her umbrella as if it was a parasol and spattering everyone with a spray of water. Her loris cackled. Alek raised a sleeve to his face and wiped it. "The taxi driver can get it. It's what he's being paid for, after all."

Deryn, typically stubborn, clung to her kit bag as they followed Dr. Barlow on her delicately picked way down the wheel-rutted path across the field to the gate. On the other side of the field loomed an imposing yet plain brick wall, wood smoke and sparks from the myriad chimneys inside of it spiraling up into the storm. A low building with a huge carriage hitched to two enormous fabricated creatures—huddled and indistinct in the rain—sprawled nearer to the center of the field—Wormwood Scrubs, he thought Deryn had called it. Mooring masts jutted up every several hundred meters, mostly empty.

As they stepped out onto the edge of the street, Alek felt his jaw drop in shock. Wormwood Scrubs was supposedly in London's suburbs, or so Deryn had said, but it was far from quiet. Wagons, carts, and sledges of all sorts clattered across the cobblestones, drawn by fabricated creatures just as varied—everything from what passed as horses pulling the smallest vehicles to a massive beast, what Alek suspected Deryn would call an "elephantine," pounding its ponderous way along the roadway, dragging a massive load on a sledge. The whole affair had a scent vaguely reminiscent of the _Leviathan_'s digestive tract, but it had a not unpleasant undertone of wood smoke and fresh hay, and overall it was vastly preferable to the choking coal-scented smogs Alek had experienced in Vienna and Berlin.

New York City had been at least this busy, but its streets were predominantly thronging with the passenger walkers so familiar to Alek, not this robust, bright bustle of _life_.

Dr. Barlow, twitching her skirts back impatiently from the sprays of mud and who-knew-what thrown up by the vehicles' wheels, turned to Deryn. "Well, hurry up and hail a taxicab, won't you? You do know how?"

"Aye, ma'am, I was born and raised in Glasgow," Deryn said with remarkable patience. Alek heard her mutter something about "too barking posh to do it herself" before she stepped fearlessly out into the traffic and waved her arm madly above her head as if she did this every day. Perhaps she had, before working on the _Leviathan_. Alek wouldn't have known. "Oi! _Taxi_!" she cried, then gave a long, piercing, unbroken whistle, a skill she claimed was an essential part of being an airman.

One of the smaller carriages, drawn by what looked like some sort of a downsized hippopotamus, immediately clattered to a halt in front of their small party, its driver hopping smartly down from his exposed perch on its front.

"Aye, sir?" he asked, looking at Deryn and smiling with brown-stained, tobacco-chewing teeth. His accent was rougher and thicker than even Deryn's, though definitely not Scottish, and his coat and hat, despite the miserable weather, were as shabby as Malone's. Alek felt an irrational urge to suddenly hide behind someone, preferably Dr. Barlow, as she was closest.

Deryn flashed an easy grin of her own. "It'll be four," she said, jerking a thumb back towards the field. "We've a bit of luggage back there. I'll lend a hand."

"Thank'ee, lad," said the driver, eyeing Tazza. "So long as the beastie doesn't tear up m'cushions."

"Don't worry, he won't," said Deryn cheerfully. Alek could swear that her accent had gotten thicker. "He'll only go for curtains, the more expensive the better."

Bovril laughed muffledly from inside Alek's coat, as did the taxi man, already following her back into the field to recover the luggage. He heard him enquire which ship they "were off" as they strode out of earshot.

Volger was already holding the taxi's door open for Dr. Barlow, who climbed up primly, Tazza clambering joyfully after her, his long nails scrabbling. Despite its driver's decrepit appearance, the taxi's inside was reasonably clean and neat—which was puzzling, as it smelled even more rank than the outside air. Two seats faced each other, with a tiny window on the opposite door between them. Dr. Barlow, whose nose was no doubt used to such things, seated herself farthest from the open door, and Volger elected to settle next to her.

Alek lingered outside despite the fact that his soaked hair was dripping water into his eyes, willing to stay in the storm so long as it meant he was breathing marginally cleaner air. He absentmindedly tilted his head back but, getting a faceful of rain, quickly dropped his chin again. His ears were tingling with cold.

Had Deryn really meant by "Huxley accident" that what had happened to her had happened to Arty—that she'd been blown off untethered in this freezing storm?

He shivered in sympathy, and Bovril, who had developed an uncanny ability to track trains of thought, piped up with a musing, "Hypothermia. Poor girl," of its own.

Alek was opening his mouth to ask it what, exactly, it meant by saying that—not that it would tell him, in all probability—when Deryn and the taxi driver reappeared through the rain, struggling with the four trunks between them.

"—bloody _heavy_," Deryn was panting as Alek rushed forward and took his own trunk from her—it was almost certainly the lightest of the four, he thought wryly. Deryn proffered a grin.

"Strap it up there," she ordered, pointing to the top of the taxi. Alek wrestled it up, then spent a few awkward moments struggling with the straps—_come on_, he told himself, i_f you could keep those cantankerous Stormwalker engines running on stolen and Darwinist parts, then you can figure out a few pieces of leather_—and beat a grateful retreat to the interior of the carriage, smell and all.

He bent over and swiped at the water dripping off his nose—a useless gesture, since his sleeve was just as damp—as Deryn swung gracefully and casually in the door. "We're going," she called out the door, presumably to the driver, "to—where, ma'am?"

"The Savoy Hotel," supplied Dr. Barlow, folding her gloved hands neatly in her lap.

Deryn's eyebrows shot up, and she muttered, "Barking posh, that is," but she continued, "—to the Savoy Hotel, please."

The driver's cheerful "aye" floated in just as Deryn swung the door shut and plonked herself down next to Alek—rather close, in fact, so much so that their shoulders brushed. She swept off Alek's borrowed hat, then wrung it out with blatant disregard for its structural integrity and the dryness of her own boots and handed it back to him, only slightly crumpled.

"Thanks," she told him, smirking, and laced her fingers through his under cover of his coat. Suddenly Alek didn't feel quite as cold.

Deryn leaned across him, nearly pressing her face to the window, and peered out. "Blisters, but it's raining," she commented, and then asked, "Why the bloody Savoy, ma'am?"

The lady boffin sniffed, stroking Tazza's head. "My house is hardly in the city, even if I were inclined to invite you there. And the Zoo lacks quarters for anything more civilized than a chimpanzee. I and other members of the Society often reside at the Savoy. And, young lady," she added, "_what_ have I said about the language?"

Deryn settled back into her seat, her shoulder again brushing Alek's, and gave Dr. Barlow a long, inscrutable look. "Pardon me, ma'am," she said finally, "but I'm the best judge of how to keep up my disguise, aye?"

Dr. Barlow eyed her coldly. "Don't be snippy," her loris pronounced in an excellent imitation of her voice. Bovril gave a derisive cackle, crawling out of Alek's coat front and onto Deryn's lap. She picked it up immediately and cuddled it to her chest.

The lady boffin seemed content to leave matters there, however, and an awkward five-minute silence ensued. The carriage rattled on at a pace that felt rather slow to Alek, although the view out the window was so bad he couldn't tell if it was traffic or just the fabrication's natural pace. Finally Volger turned to Dr. Barlow and asked some trivial question, and soon the two were engaged in quiet conversation. Deryn took the opportunity to lean her head on Alek's shoulder—she was slumped in her seat, and most of her height was in her legs, so they were equal when sitting—and recount the tale of Arty's mishap, uncharacteristically free, so far as Alek could tell, of any of her usual embellishments.

By the time the carriage clattered to a halt, Alek's mind had been pulled away entirely from the fact that he could smell her hair from here—the scent was quite nice, more so considering the general smell of his surroundings, and rather, well, _Derynish_—and he was fully engaged in worrying about Arty. He liked her well enough—she was beginning to grow on him, but he suspected that if he hadn't had Deryn to completely demolish his standards of proper female behavior, he would have been rather scornful of her—and, besides, to hear about something like that happening to _anybody_ was frightening. He tried to reassure himself with the fact, much vaunted by Deryn, that Darwinist doctors were "dead brilliant" and could most likely easily handle a case of hypothermia.

Deryn, however, was far from consolable, her anxiety and her guilt painfully evident in her voice, and she fretted silently in a most unusual-for-her way the entire way to their destination. Once the carriage swung in a tight circle and stopped, however, she looked up and managed a smile.

"Have a look, then," she invited Alek, pushing open the door and swinging out with a modicum of her usual verve.

He inspected the building in front of him, duly impressed by its size and grandeur. The taxi had swung its way throughout most of a small roundabout at the front of the hotel, which was situated on a rather long stretch of very straight and wide road absolutely teeming with vehicles, which Deryn waved a hand vaguely at and announced, "The Strand," as if _that_ was supposed to make any sense.

The hotel itself was at least eight stories high, with multiple wings, and the front doors were open under a massive block of stone proclaiming, simply, "Savoy." The multitude of windows were decorated with miniature arches and trim details, and Alek supposed it would have been very impressive indeed—if his childhood home hadn't been a castle. Besides, it was not half as pretty as the Hotel Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, although that was hardly a fair comparison.

A red-and-gold-uniformed bellhop was already hurrying towards the taxi. He frowned just slightly as his eyes alighted on Alek's rather old coat, but his face smoothed out into pleased impassivity as he spotted first Deryn's dress uniform and then Dr. Barlow's bowler as she stepped daintily down from the carriage.

"Name, ma'am?" he asked in a cultured accent. Two other bellhops appeared silently from behind him and began work on the luggage straps, although Deryn made a surreptitious leap and again snagged her kit bag.

"Dr. Nora Darwin Barlow," she answered, adjusting both her hat and her grip on Tazza's leash. The rain had petered out into a miserable drizzle. "And, ah, companions. One of whom is already upstairs?"

"Yes, of course, ma'am," said the bellhop, taking one of the trunks himself. "If you'll follow me? Your rooms have already been paid for."

The slightly sodden group traipsed together into the lobby, which was lavishly appointed with marble and gilt and an electrikal chandelier on the high ceiling. Alek took a deep breath of the thankfully cleaned air—perhaps some sort of filtration system?—and turned slightly, watching Deryn out of the corner of his eye. She was facing straight ahead, her expression one of studied nonchalance, but her eyes were surreptitiously darting left and right, catching for a brief moment on the chandelier—as well as the Oriental carpets, the cut-glass mirrors, and the rather ostentatious displays of wealth on the persons of the hotel's guests. He elbowed her, smirking.

She rolled her eyes and mouthed "_Dummkopf_" at him just as one of the elevators dinged softly and the doors slid open. Inside were a velvet rug, a multitude of mirrors, and a blank-faced operator. Two of the bellhops hung back, and the four former _Leviathan_ passengers piled in, along with the least laden of the bellhops.

Bovril, once inside, seemed to find it appropriate to declare, from its perch on Deryn's shoulder, "First electrikal lifts in Britain." Alek was at a loss as to how, exactly, it had acquired this information, but was, at this point, entirely sure of its accuracy.

The bellhop eyed the loris speculatively but did not pass comment on the nature of the speaker, instead settling for a suave, "Indeed. And the first hotel entirely wired for electrik lights as well."

Alek had to admit that the elevator was faster and quieter than the steam-powered ones in Istanbul. He wondered which Clanker country they'd bought the design off of—or was it American-made?

They arrived at their floor quickly, and the bellhop led them down several turns to what had to be very nearly the back of the hotel. "Your rooms, sirs, madam," he said, indicating three doors with the sweep of a white-gloved hand. "With Thames views, as requested. Miss Black is already in there, I believe." He pointed to one of the doors.

"Thank you," said the lady boffin, tipping him and indicating the same door he had. "That trunk goes in there. Mr. Sharp," she added, turning, "you are in the middle room. Count, Mr. Hohenberg, I'm afraid you're sharing the other."

"That will be perfectly all right, Doctor," said Volger quickly. "Come along, Aleksandar." And with that, he swung open the door of what would most likely be Alek's home for who knew how long and marched quickly inside, Alek following.

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**Ah, the Savoy. :) The more astute of you will no doubt notice a correlation with a certain ****_something_****—at least, you will if you're as obsessively detailed-oriented a reader as I am, as it's mentioned a grand total of... once, maybe? Twice? Not often, at least. ;)**

**In case you were wondering, my description of the Savoy ****_is_**** based off a picture of it. (I've seen it... probably... but I have absolutely no memory of doing so.) A modern-day one, though, so perhaps things might have changed. I was also unable to ascertain the height... :( The interior I made up. But hey, it's a high-end place, and they call it the "Gilded Age" for a reason, no? ;)**

**The fact Bovril cites about the electric (the only time you'll see me spell ****_that_**** with a "k" is when Alek's narrating; Deryn spells it normally, too) elevators and the one the bellhop adds about the lights are both true. Darned if I know why the Darwinists are fiddling about with electrical things, but, as Deryn tells us, everywhere else they use ****_oil lamps_****, so...**

**Don't judge my attempt at writing cockney (or some heretofore unknown variant...?), please. ;) I haven't any practice.**

**Also, a small but heartfelt thanks to my shiny new beta, Julia456, for reading this and my insanely long plot summary over and disgorging opinions when prodded. ;) I trust y'all know her already?**

**Was last chapter unsatisfactory in some way...? I got five reviews... or is everyone else as "busy" as I am? If there's something wrong, please tell me. TT_TT Either way, make me happy this chapter and REVIEW!**


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